


Big Dick Energy

by Bellelaide



Series: ENT [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: England Football Squad, England National Team, English National Team, FIFA World Cup 2018, I’m the worst, M/M, but fuck it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-09 13:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15268467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellelaide/pseuds/Bellelaide
Summary: Pickford is furious after being knocked out of the World Cup 2018 Semi Finals. He goes to bother John Stones about it





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m just really obsessed with male sports team dynamics OKAY. Ps. Sorry if you’re Croatian, the country is great as are its people and no offence is meant here!

Jordan was fuming. 

Sad, disappointed, disbelieving, yeah, but also just so angry. A nation of 4 million had beaten them into the World Cup final and he was fizzing. 

It shouldn’t have been possible - the stats hadn’t indicated such a result and they’d been confident going in. Maybe that was the problem - too much confidence; they’d been cocky. Jordan wanted to lay into every single one of their team with their shitty haircuts and smug faces. He’d nearly started a fight on the pitch but had decided better of it - that would only have made the result worse. 

The whole team was silent on the bus back to the hotel. They had let down the entire nation at home and weight of the result was sitting heavy on all of them, the air charged with emotion. Gareth had tried talking to them individually on the pitch, but no one was really listening. Jordan was tangibly wired - the rest of the team knew him well enough to know that if he was pushed even a little bit he’d explode. 

They unloaded at the hotel quietly. The majority of the team disappeared off to their rooms to be alone, to carry out post-match rituals in private. There would be a debrief first thing in the morning, but until then, their time was their own - to mourn how they saw fit. 

They’d showered at the pitch and Jordan’s hair was still damp, the air-con in the hotel reception chilling the back of his neck. He followed some of the management team and a couple players into the hotel bar, not feeling like being alone but not trusting himself out in Russia when he felt like this. He sat heavily in a chair and his leg was bounced up and down on the spot as an uncomfortable energy enveloped the room. 

Kyle Walker sat down next to him, letting out a sigh. “Might have a beer, suppose we’ll be alright to drink now, won’t we?” he mumbled, motioning to the waiter. 

Jordan bit at the skin around his thumb. “Wanna go out?” He asked, voice low. 

“Out out? To the club? Nah mate, no fucking chance.” Kyle shook his head and let out a gust of breath, finding the idea ludicrous - the last thing he wanted to do was stand in a grotty Russian club until 4am. He was knackered. 

Jordan looked to the other team mates scattered around, and no one would meet his eye. “None of yous got any energy to burn off like?” he snapped quickly, turning his mood on them. 

Harry looked at him. “Where’s your bird, mate?” he asked pointedly, and Jordan bristled. 

“At her hotel - why bud, want fuckin rid of us?” he was being aggressive and it was unfair, he knew, but he was just so angry. 

“I suggest you go for a walk, lad,” Gareth said suddenly from behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’re all pissed off. This isn’t going to achieve anything.” 

Jordan looked at them all again, how they were avoiding his gaze, and he wanted to smash the bar up. He snorted coldly and pushed himself out of his chair, marching away from the bar without a glance back. His skin was thrumming with rage. Fucking Croatia - where was Croatia? He’d never heard of it. All he knew was that it was small and foreign. Suddenly he wanted to know everything about it, wanted to write tweets about it and sound informed. Was he fuck going to look stupid twice at the hands of that God forsaken country. 

He bounced on his toes in the lobby, slamming his hand on the button for the lift again and again. He could’ve googled it, but he wouldn’t understand half of what it said on Wikipedia and besides, he wasn’t interested on being on his own. He got in the lift and pressed the button for the England floor. He wracked his brains, considering who the smartest person but least annoying would be - the choices were few. He thought about Vardy, but he’d be with his Mrs; and Kane was downstairs sucking up executive arses. It would have to be John Stones - he was an antisocial bastard, sure, but Jordan would have to just deal with it. He wanted answers. 

He stole down the corridor once the lift doors opened and tried to remember which room John was in - he had no fucking idea. He walked to the door closest to him and knocked. Dele answered a second later, earphones in, looking irritated. “Sup mate?” 

“Which room’s Stonesy in?” Jordan barked, impatient. 

Dele looked at him disgustedly and snapped “How the fuck should I know? Text him,” closing the door in Jordan’s face. Jordan could only think - yeah, fair enough. 

He scrolled through their whatsapp group till he found John’s number and fired off a text. 

Jordan Pickford: alright mate, what room you in? 

He waited there in the corridor, trying not to imagine all the Croatian fuckers celebrating right then. A couple of moments passed and Jordan looked at the message again, noticing that John had read it but wasn’t replying. Jordan only got angrier, his patience wearing thin. He pressed on the phone call button, chewing his thumb once more. John answered on the first ring. 

“What the fuck?” John whined into the phone, and Jordan’s spare hand clenched into a fist. 

“What do you mean what the fuck? Where the fuck are you?” 

“Whatever it is, go and ask Harry,” John murmured, and Jordan threw his head back in frustration. 

“Just tell me your fuckin room number!” he shouted. There was silence on the other end of the phone, and Jordan thought he’d been hung up on - but then a door to Jordan’s left opened and John was stood there, hair damp, hoodie and joggers on, looking at Jordan like he’d lost the plot. 

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” John said, incredulous. Jordan wasted no time, elbowing past him and sliding into the room. 

Jordan took stock - the TV was on, but muted. He could tell that John had showered another time since coming home, the room smelling like hotel shampoo. He sat down on the edge of the bed and started biting his thumb again. 

John simply shook his head and closed the door, laying back down on the other side of the bed, near the pillows, paying no attention to Jordan. He was typing away when Jordan said “Where the fuck is Croatia?” 

John frowned, not looking up from his phone. “Er, Eastern Europe. Next to like, Hungary and Bosnia and that.” 

“Where?” 

John smirked. He typed around on his phone again then chucked it to Jordan, who caught it easily. “You ever thought about becoming a goalie, mate?” he sniggered, and Jordan didn’t respond, looking closely at the map of Croatia John had pulled up for him. 

“Okay.” He threw the phone back, and John went back to texting. Jordan sat there awkwardly, listening to the sound of John tapping at the keys. Eventually he cleared his throat and meekly asked “Why’d they beat us?” his rage dissipating in the silence of the room. 

“Dunno, played better than us. Need to wait for the debrief tomorrow to know more.” 

“Was it my fault?” he asked, and John shook his head, still looking at his phone. 

“Course not, mate,” he said absently, and it made Jordan angry again. 

“D’you not fuckin care, nah?” he said, and John sighed and put his phone down. 

“What’s eating you, Pickford?”

“I don’t fuckin understand it, and I’m fuckin raging, I’m fuckin - I want to fuckin fight some fucker,” he rambled.

John just looked at him. “What the fuck have I got to do with that?” 

Jordan looked pointedly at the wall. “Dunno, you’re smart and shit. Thought you’d be able to tell us what they have in Croatia that we don’t have in England.” 

John blinked at him. “Do us a favour?” he asked softly, and Jordan tipped his chin in acknowledgement. “Play with my hair?” 

They were used to being physical, being close, and Jordan didn’t think twice as he moved up the bed, settling next to John and placing a pillow across his lap for him to rest his head on. He played gently with his hair, running his fingers across the stubble at the base of his head, tugging the longer strands on top. It was a therapeutic exercise, and it relaxed Jordan. They sat in silence for a while, Jordan staring at the images on the screen, John busy on his phone. 

“Who you texting?” Jordan mumbled eventually, curiosity getting the better of him. 

“Russian model I banged a few nights ago,” John replied. “She’s not fucking game now though. Just want a fuckin blowie, but no one’s interested in a loser. Fucking fickle.”

Jordan didn’t know what fickle meant, but he understood the gist of what John was saying. “Want to fire some porn on and have a wank?” he asked casually, fingers still in John’s hair. They were used to living in such close quarters that masturbation wasn’t taboo; and he wouldn’t say no to a wank. Sure, he could go to his own room, but he didn’t feel like being alone, alone with the crushing weight of their semi final defeat. 

John was quiet whilst he considered it. Eventually he laughed and said fuck it, why not, and they were fluffing up the pillows on either side of the double bed, settling back whilst Jordan flicked through the channels to get to the pay per view porn. 

“This is old fashioned as fuck,” he said, perusing the limited selection. 

John hummed in agreement, and they eventually decided on something about a threesome with two school girls and a teacher. At first they poked fun at the terrible plot and acting, but then they were falling quiet as the sound of the porn cut through the room. 

Jordan didn’t want to be the first one to touch himself, but thankfully before long John popped up his knee so his right foot was flat against the bed and stuck his hands down his joggers, giving himself a few slow, leisurely tugs. Jordan followed suite, and then they were slowly getting off in sync, casual, relaxed. 

“She’s fuckin hot,” Jordan said lowly, nodding his head at the blonde on screen. 

“Mm?” Said John, eyes focussed on the TV. “Natalia Nemcimova? Think she’s Croatian actually, mate,” he teased, grinning over at Jordan who’s face dropped and his hand stilled. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he said, dead pan, and John burst out laughing, his own hand stopping in his boxers. “Fucking twat,” Jordan said under his breath, attempting to slap John in the balls but not moving his hand away fast enough when John grabbed his wrist and kept him in place on his crotch, his eyes suddenly serious and dark. 

“Get us off,” he said, in almost a whisper, and Jordan frowned at him. 

“Do what?” 

“Get me off,” John said again, his accent thickening. There were a few seconds of suspended silence that made both of them as nervous as if they were up for a penalty shoot-out, the vulgar sounds of the porn radiating in the background. Pickford blinked and shoved his hand down John’s pants, deciding to blame the Croats for this behaviour too. 

He wanked the two of them off simultaneously, struggling a bit against the fabric of John’s pants until John pushed them down over his hips, making it a bit easier for them both. Jordan thought he said something like “Always good with an assist, you are”, but he couldn’t really remember because John was moaning and saying “you should wank us off in your gloves one time” and it made Jordan come all over himself. As if on cue John was coming too, and Jordan was sat there covered in spunk - still gutted that England had been put out the world cup, still bone tired from playing - but less angry, less wired. 

John had his head tipped back against the headboard, his mouth open, and he slowly reached behind him and pulled a pillow case off one of the pillows he was leaning on, wiping come off his groin and trousers. He pulled his trousers up then flung the pillowcase at Jordan, who was staring blankly at the ceiling. John turned off the TV and picked up his phone again, scrolling through a few notifications. 

“Oh mint, the Russian bird - she’s changed her mind!” he grinned, looking around for his shoes and tugging them on. “Fucking get in. Right, I’m gonna go and - Pickford, pull your fuckin trousers up will you? I’m gonna go to her hotel and smash her, mate. Make sure the door’s closed properly when you leave?” John grabbed his wallet from the table, quickly running a hand through his hair. He bounced to the door, showing no signs of fatigue, and stopped just as he was about to leave. “Cheers for that, eh?” he smiled, winked, and was gone. 

Jordan sat there with his come growing crusty as it dried on his skin in a state of disbelief at the last thirty minutes. He’d only come for a geography lesson, and now this - he gingerly cleaned himself up, and thought that fuck, was he glad he hadn’t gone to Jamie Vardy in the end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn’t let this go... 
> 
> Soz if all my facts are messed up, I have no idea what I’m talking about

Jordan would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about himself, John Stones, and his goalie gloves every day since they’d messed around together in Russia. 

If his mind wandered that’s where it wandered to - the pair of them in a bed somewhere fooling around carelessly. It surprised him, actually - he’d never properly fantasised about any of his teammates before (obviously out-with the standard watching-so-and-so-bend-over-in-his-kit-and-wondering-if-he’d-give-or-receive type of thing). Yet here he was, at every opportunity, thinking about Stonesy making him come and resenting the fact that they were done with the World Cup, and his opportunities were now slim. 

He texted John a couple times, once or twice sending a meme he’d seen on Twitter and then even asking ‘how you doing bud ?’ But John usually just sent an emoji in response, or the word lol, or ‘good mate’ and Jordan didn’t want to come across as too keen, even if he was, so he tried to leave things alone. 

Jordan was at home trying to enjoy his down time, savouring the buzz of their best World Cup run in decades, but all he could think about were the boys and the game and his old routine. He tried running and working out and keeping busy with his mates, his girlfriend. One time he was sleeping with her, really going for it, and he nearly moaned “John,” in her ear, and he’d instantly gone soft as the fear of the slip rattled through him. He’d quickly had to tell her it was because he was thinking of England coming fourth again, and the whole thing was nothing short of humiliating.

So things were okay-ish; a little quiet after the buzz of the tournament, but all in all Jordan was thankful for the rest and seeing his family and just being at home in his own bed. He was a national treasure now, his mam said, and every time he ventured out of the house people mobbed him for photos and autographs. It was weird but good - he knew it wouldn’t last forever; and that he should enjoy it whilst he could. 

He searched the John Stones hashtag on Instagram daily, and there was never much in the way of updates - John was so private - but it helped to scratch at the itch he was feeling.They had two weeks of down time before they were expected to do some media stuff, a little bit of training before their next match in September, and then before they knew it they’d be ready for the Premier League, and he’d be all caught up in his own team and his own life again. 

Jordan Pickford was fine, and he was happy, and he couldn’t complain about his life at all. Everything would be perfect, if he could just get John Stones out his head. 

— 

They’d asked for no fuss, no welcoming parade, no media circus, but there were still some things the England National Team just couldn’t get out of. This included an appearance on Good Morning Britain, a meeting and photo op with the Prime Minister, and then some various press conferences and bits for the papers. Normally Jordan couldn’t be bothered with it all, but he was excited this time - to get to see the boys and, importantly, John. 

The night before the GMB interview they’d been booked into a hotel in London - their 7am slot required it, allowing them to travel down the prior evening and get a good night’s sleep before they’d have to work. The car came to pick Jordan up and he was buzzing with excitement and nerves, thinking how he’d get into John’s room and seduce him into fooling around with him again, how he’d finally get to do all the things he wanted to - he packed his gloves in his bag just incase, hardly even remembering to say goodbye to his girlfriend in his haste to get on the way. 

He was jittery the whole journey, not even enjoying the luxury of the car they’d sent for him. He arrived into London after 7pm and when he got to the hotel he was greeted by someone from their press team, a woman he recognised vaguely as Michele from other things they’d done and who’d been around during the World Cup. 

“Good journey?” she asked him, and he nodded that it was fine. She told him his floor and room number, said there would be a wake up call at 4:30am and to phone reception if he needed anything. Jordan thanked her and made to head for the lifts, then paused, his pulse quickening.

“Is eh - what room is John in?” he asked quickly, trying hard to keep himself from blushing. 

Michele frowned slightly and looked at the paper she was holding. “Er - John from PR or John Stones?” 

“Stones,” Jordan said too quickly, blushing for real. 

“He’s travelling through the night, I believe - yes, we have a car picking him up at two. Is there anything else - “ 

“Nah, nah that’s - cheers love,” he said, and he was turning and marching to the lifts, disappointment crushing him, making him feel suddenly very stupid and very angry. He’d been excited, he’d been counting on this - and just like that, it was over. He stomped down the hall to his room and threw his bag down, unzipping his jacket and pulling off his trousers. He collapsed onto the bed, where he lay in the dark staring at the ceiling for quite some time. 

—— 

Jordan was crabby and groggy when the call came to wake him up the next morning. He slunk out of bed miserably, irritated and tired and uncomfortable. He slipped in the shower which only made his mood worse. Once he was out and brushing his teeth he noticed in the bathroom mirror that his hair was still full of shampoo at the front, and he nearly punched his own reflection. 

They were supposed to wear suit and tie for the interview but he couldn’t get his tie done properly and his shirt felt too tight across his shoulders. It was like he couldn’t breathe with the top button done up. He left his room aggressively, banging the door closed and jabbing the lift button repeatedly. When the doors opened on the reception the majority of the team were milling around, including Gareth and some media people like Michele from last night. 

The lads were cheery and excited to see one another and started teasing Jordan when he approached them, commenting on his sloppy tie and grumpy expression. 

“Wake up on the wrong side of the bed did you love?” Mcguire joked, Dier chiming in that it looked like he’d slept in his clothes. Vardy laughed that Jordan was holding them all up and that they were keeping Piers Morgan waiting. 

Jordan wanted to explode and scream at every last one of them, and Gareth could tell because he was saying “Alright lads, settle down,” and using a hand to steer Jordan away. He undid Jordan’s tie and did it again for him, properly, saying calmly, “You okay, lad?” 

Jordan nodded. “Sorry, Gareth. I’m tired, didn’t sleep well.” 

“You gonna be okay to go on the show, yeah? Don’t want any headlines about the England goalie ripping Piers Morgan’s head off on national TV.” 

Jordan huffed a laughed and sighed. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ll be alright once I’ve had a brew at the studio.” 

Gareth patted him on the shoulder and then turned to the rest of the boys, herding them into the cars that were lined up outside to take them across the city to ITV studios. Jordan was quiet in the car but so was everyone else; the hum of the engine just enough noise for that time in the morning. 

When they arrived at the studio and had been ushered to the dressing rooms, Jordan asked for a cup of tea - milk, two sugars - and closed his eyes in the chair he was in whilst some staff mic’d him up and put some powder on his face. Most of the lads were chatting quietly, to each other and staff, largely giving Jordan a wide berth. Jordan was content to ignore them too - until he heard the unmistakeable sounds of John’s voice enter the room. 

Jordan turned around and glared at him over the top of his cup of tea, watching as John breezed in and hugged the guys, smiley and bright eyed despite travelling down by car through the night, his suit crisp and perfect and infuriating. He’d had his hair cut again, trimmed down into that fucking Peaky Blinders style that had irritatingly been working well for him. Once or twice John looked over at Jordan, whose intense gaze he must’ve felt, and eventually he stared back, frowning but smiling at the same time. He nudged Harry and said, “who pissed off Jordy?” And Jordan spun around in his chair again, facing away from John and angrily pretending to look through his phone. 

“How you doing boss?” John said in Jordan’s ear a few seconds later, and Jordan’s heart rate picked up. He could smell him - aftershave, shampoo, coffee - and Jordan wanted to be anywhere but next to him right then. 

“Alright,” he grunted, and he pushed himself out of the chair, around and away. John watched him move to the other side of the room and shook his head in exasperation. Moments later a runner was there checking they were all mic’d and moving them into the studio proper, into their seats for the interview, briefing them quickly on the topics they’d discuss. Harry and Gareth would do most of the talking, but occasionally there would be an opportunity to jump in with something if they were so inclined. 

The interview passed by in a blur for Jordan - he was asked one question about penalties, and he answered vaguely that he’d studied the Colombian techniques with Gareth beforehand, so he knew what to expect. They did some photo ops, chatted briefly with Piers, who Jordan thought was a twat, and then they were off to 10 Downing Street to meet the PM who, coincidentally, Jordan also thought was a twat. 

They arrived at the home of the Prime Minister after 9am (they’d had a breakfast break, of course) and Jordan couldn’t have cared less about being there, but he could see that John was in his element, taking in the portraits of past PMs in the hall and observing May with a look on his face that said he was silent but judging her, watching her every move, listening to her talk about football but knowing she was also making a pigs ear of Brexit and fucking up the NHS and all that political stuff. Jordan watched John watch the Prime Minister and he was struck by the desire to sit across from him at a bar and drink pints and listen to John talk about current affairs until they were the last ones there. 

He didn’t think he was staring that blatantly until Dele nudged him and said “What’s up with the death stare at Stones?” 

Jordan mumbled that it was May he was looking at, and Dele didn’t argue. Jordan hated himself for being unable to shake his irritation. He tried to reason with himself - John had been busy, he hadn’t had time to travel early like the rest of them, it didn’t mean he didn’t like Jordan or the team - but all he wanted to do was fight with John for doing stuff with him in Russia then acting like it never happened, for not wanting to do it again how Jordan did. He felt like John had taken the piss out of him. He felt at a loss. 

The Downing Street thing seemed to take forever. Jordan was starving by the time they’d snapped photo after photo and hung around and chatted. He was sullen, quiet, hanging back at the edge of the group and talking to no one. His suit itched at his neck and he just wanted a nap, to phone his mam and tell her about his day. He nearly cheered when it was time for them to leave. They’d be dropped off back at the hotel, then it was up to them how they spent their afternoons before a final day of press. 

Jordan slid into the first waiting car, all the way across the back seat and looked furiously out of the window. He smelled that John had come in right behind him before he saw him with his eyes - that smell of aftershave, of hair product. 

“S’matter?” John said lowly into Jordan’s ear, moving closer to allow Eric to slide in last. “S’goin on?” They were so close, Jordan could feel John’s breath on him, could see the flecks of dark blue across his irises. 

“One of those days,” Jordan replied just as quietly, once again rendered nervous in John’s presence. “Just one of those days, eh.” 

“Sure? Feel like you’re pissed at me,” John said. His voice was gravelly with how he’d dropped it, and Jordan had to actively fight his cheeks from flushing. 

“Hardly heard from you over the last two weeks like,” he said, staring at the seat in front of him. “Sure it’s not you who’s pissed at me?” 

John just looked at Jordan, his whole upper body turned toward him in an attempt at privacy within the confines of the car. His expression was unreadable, just that intense gaze he was so good at, and Jordan wanted to shake him. “I did reply to your messages?” John said softly, searching Jordan’s face for a clue as to what was going on.

Jordan rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Forget it. You going home again tonight and back for press tomorrow?” he asked petulantly, and John laughed. 

“Why the fuck would I do that? Of course not. Dropped me stuff this morning at the hotel. Couldn’t make it last night because my fuckin suit was in the dry cleaners till 11:30, can you fucking believe? As if a dry cleaners could be that busy? Had to wait for the 2am car picking up Kyle and Raheem - you’d think they’d be nice enough to send me my own car like, but nah, had to wait...” 

Jordan couldn’t even listen to the rest of what John was saying because he was focussed on the happiness swelling in his chest - John hadn’t been avoiding him, hadn’t chose to travel down in the night because he’d rather be at home for a few more hours than around the boys. Jordan wanted to kiss him suddenly, violently, buoyed by the thought that he’d gotten it wrong and it was all still to play for and he wasn’t some too-keen loser compared to John’s cool aloofness. 

“What you doing for Lunch, boys?” Eric asked suddenly, bringing them both back into the world around them. John and Eric went off into a conversation about the merits of Mexican versus Italian, and Jordan let his thigh press into John’s, thinking once again about the gloves at the hotel in his bag. 

—— 

They’d agreed to go to Wahaca for food, Mexican being the majority winner amongst the team. The hostess had nearly died when the England National Team had walked in, and they’d had to be escorted out of the back door after word had gotten out as to their location.

Jordan had a new lease of life, chatting happily with everyone over their food, bantering, laughing. He was at the opposite end of the table to John, and he couldn’t stop staring down at him, watching his jaw work the food in his mouth and the way he angled his body toward Kyle, how his eyes sparkled when he laughed. It didn’t occur to Jordan to think about how into this he was getting; didn’t cross his mind that his girlfriend had been texting him all day and hadn’t heard back from him once; didn’t think about how badly this had the potential to go. He had never been the kind to think too deeply about situations, about life - he just took each thing as it came, rode it out, acted on impulse. This was no different. 

So they ate, drank a bit, enjoyed each other’s company, took snapchats and Instagram videos. Then they were on their way back to the hotel and their evenings were theirs - tomorrow would be another early call time, but until then, they were free.

Jordan was antsy again in the car home. John had gone into a different car this time, and Jordan wasn’t sure suddenly how to go about getting what he wanted. He thought about texting John but he knew he needed to be more convincing than that - John wouldn’t be moved by a booty call. He decided he’d corner John in the lobby and mention the gloves in passing - he’d try and use a sexy voice, he’d stand tall and confident. 

The car dropped them off and Jordan walked into the lobby, hanging out near the front door, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Every few moments more of the lads would trickle in, some heading upstairs to sleep, others making plans to meet in the hotel bar. Jordan ignored them all. When John arrived, he had his head down and was making a beeline for the elevator. He walked right past Jordan without looking at him, his socialisation tank empty, and froze at the sound of Jordan’s voice calling his name. 

“Ey, Ston-“ 

“Can it wait, mate?” John almost snapped, turning around. 

“Uh, yeah, but - are you alright?” Jordan could feel his moment slipping away, and he wanted to grab it with both hands and hold on for dear life. 

“I’m good bud. I’m - I’m just tired and I need to be on my own for a bit, know what I mean?” 

And Jordan did know what he meant; John loved being with the lads - but when he needed to be on his own, he needed to be on his own, and the rest of the team were good at knowing when he was retreating into himself, when to leave him to his own devices. He was bubbly and fun and talkative but he was also introverted and quiet at times. He needed to recharge in peace - Jordan, however, was not willing to leave him alone. 

“Well yeah, but... I was thinking, like, you know - I’ve brought my eh, my gloves and I...” he was mumbling and stuttering and John was searching Jordan’s face like he was a kid explaining to his dad how his brand new car just so happened to be scratched the whole way around. On hearing the word gloves he looked away from Jordan’s face to a point behind his head, the penny dropping. 

John opened his mouth to reply, and nothing came out at first. He shook his head and ran a hand down his face, eyes settling back on Jordan’s, kinder this time. “Mate... is that what this was about this morning? Aw Jordan, I’m not - we’re not - “ 

Jordan wanted to cry, suddenly feeling stupid and rejected, and he smiled weakly and said “No worries bro, get some sleep yeah?” He turned and walked in the opposite direction, not sure where he was going, just eager to distance himself from that moment of crushing humiliation. 

John didn’t try and stop him, and Jordan mentally berated himself - he’d made a complete twat of the whole situation. He’d embarrassed himself and now he wasn’t sure how things would be on the team; during games. He was walking without thinking of where he was going, out of the hotel and down the street. No one stopped him, barely registering him without his uniform or the other lads around him. He walked for fifteen minutes aimlessly in one direction and then, once he’d calmed down a bit, decided to turn around before he got lost. He wanted to go to the hotel, phone Megan, and have a shower, then go to sleep and pretend this hadn’t happened. 

He ambled back, being stopped once for a selfie by a couple of young lads. He barely even smiled for the picture and felt bad about it, but fuck it - he was done with today, done with everything and everyone. 

—— 

He’d showered and was facetiming his girlfriend, telling her about meeting the Prime Minister, when there was an urgent sounding knock at his door. He told Megan he’d phone her back and went to answer it, hoping everything was okay - he opened the door and John was stood there, wearing a troubled expression, in shorts and a tshirt and barefoot, and he pushed into the room and stood at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips and looked around. 

Jordan stood there holding the door, looking at John, utterly baffled. John looked back at him and raised his eyebrows. “Get the fuckin gloves on before I change my mind.” 

Jordan let go of the door and scrambled to his bag, not even stopping for a second to let common sense guide him. He pulled his gloves on and flexed his fingers open and shut, looking at John hungrily. He’d waited for this moment, and it was here, and he was ready. John put a thumb in the waist of his own shorts, and then stopped, licking his lips. “Jordan - this is the last time, alright. This isn’t going to become a thing.” 

Jordan was nodding like the Churchill dog, and then John was sitting on the edge of the bed, freeing his quickly hardening dick and opening his legs wide enough for Jordan to sit in between them. The whole thing was more visual than physically satisfying; penises were not made to be touched with fucking goalie gloves and eventually, after some prodding and touching and petting, Jordan was unstrapping the glove on his right hand and finishing the job with skin on skin. The sight of Jordan’s initials on the gloves was what eventually tipped John over the edge, and he came silently, hands gripping the bed sheets either side of his hips, come splashing over his thighs and the carpet. 

Jordan stared at him, open mouthed, unbearably hard, thinking that he’d never done anything so erotic in his life. He stared at the way John’s eyelashes looked fanned out against his cheeks, how his chest rose and fell deeply, the way his biceps strained to hold up his weight against the bed. John opened his eyes and Jordan looked down instantly, embarrassed to be caught staring. “What d’you want?” John asked, his voice gruff. 

“What?” 

“Should I blow you or that?” 

Jordan blushed then, couldn’t help it. 

“D’y want to?” 

John shrugged. “Dunno, never done it before like, but if you want me to -“ 

Jordan knew it’d be his last chance, last opportunity to have John like this, but he couldn’t get off on a ‘dunno’. ‘Dunno’ wasn’t ‘yes, I want this,’ and Jordan was turned off again, that sadness from earlier snaking its way around his heart. 

“Nah, s’alright, mate,” he said instead, pushing himself to his feet, his knees cracking. “Listen, I said I’d facetime the bird, so...” 

John blinked a couple times, then folded himself back into his shorts, nodding. “Yeah, no worries. Cheers for that, you’re a hero,” he murmured, seeing himself to the door. “Get a good kip, yeah? New day tomorrow.”

Jordan sat down on the floor heavily once the door had closed, his head tipping against the wall, and sighed. This was a proper fucking mess, and he’d definitely, definitely never be able to look at those gloves the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://belle-laid.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

Following what he referred to in his mind as ‘the incident’, Jordan didn’t hear from John for a good couple of weeks. 

He tried his best to put the whole saga out of his mind; it was futile dwelling on it - they’d done what they’d done, and now he needed to think about his own sanity going forward, and their ability to play football together without things being awkward. 

He was busy training, busy with Everton and getting his head down and getting on with it. He was tired and drained but happy, enjoying how things were - better to be exhausted than bored - and he was appreciating a relaxing bath on a Saturday night when he got the call. 

He was listening to Taste by Tyga at full blast, surrounded by bubbles and doing his best to rap along when the song cut out and that annoying iPhone ring tone sounded. Jordan stuck a damp hand out of the tub, reaching for his phone on the pile of towels next to him - and froze when he saw the caller ID say ‘Stonesy’. 

He contemplated ignoring it but curiosity, as always, got the better of him, and he picked up on the fifth ring. 

“Y’aaaaalright?” John drawled instantly, and Jordan’s breath caught in his throat. 

“Sup?” He asked weakly, bringing his knees up to his chest. 

“What you doin, Pickford?” John asked, and Jordan could hear other voices chattering on the other end of the call faintly. 

“Havin a bath, taking it easy,” Jordan replied slowly, sure there was a trap or a trick coming any second. 

John laughed at that, and Jordan’s stomach turned flips. John said “Of course you’re in the bath, of course you are,” and Jordan didn’t get to ask what that meant because then John was saying “Why wouldn’t you let me blow you, Pickford?” 

Jordan was silent, his mouth unable to catch up with his brain. He sat there in the bathtub in disbelief and suddenly wanted to throw his phone across the room in frustration. He couldn’t find the words, couldn’t think of how to put it. 

“Don’t say owt then, but I won’t be offended if you like... like if you - is it cos I’m ugly?” John babbled, and then Jordan understood that John was probably drunk, and that this was the moment to hang up the phone. He did not, once again, listen to common sense. 

“Fucking hell John, ugly? What the fuck?” Was all he could manage, and it was John’s turn to be silent. “What the fuck are ya talking about? I said no to the BJ because you clearly didn’t want to give me one, why the fuck would I want a gammy off someone who’s not game?” 

John scoffed. “How did I not want to? I offered!” 

“Because you felt like you had to, I dunno? You weren’t very convincing about it.” 

There was silence for a few seconds, and Jordan had to check that the call was still connected. 

“I wanted you to do it. You’re not ugly, mate,” Jordan soothed, and he heard John sigh on the end of the phone. 

“Wanna come to mine?” John said eventually, and Jordan’s eyes widened. 

“You said it wasn’t gonna become a thing,” he replied, already considering driving to John’s, thinking of what he’d tell his girlfriend, how he’d rationalise this in his mind. 

“Hardly a thing, Pickford, is it,” John said. “Might as well finish what we started though, eh? I’m at the pub with some friends, not far from the house...” 

Jordan couldn’t argue with that logic. He ignored the voice in his head that told him he was being too easy, making himself too available. 

“You want me to pick you up?” He asked instead. 

John said yes, he did, and Jordan was out the bath and drying off in record speed, pulling on clothes and grabbing his wallet and keys. He told his girlfriend he was going round to John’s to play Fortnite with some of the boys, and she was pissed off because it was late and they’d said they’d catch up on Love Island together, but Jordan had a one track mind, wasn’t thinking about anything or anyone else. 

He drove for 40 minutes and pulled up at the address John had given him, at a pub decorated with England flags and featuring a nice looking beer garden. He texted John that he was outside, and a few minutes later John pushed out of the doors of the bar, two men with him. John motioned to Jordan to wind down the window of his car, and he introduced the guys - one was his cousin, and the other was a friend from school. The boys were pissed and spoke shit to Jordan about the World Cup, praising his game and asking for pictures. Jordan was happy to talk to them, but he kept looking over at John who was stood back with hooded eyes, a faint smirk visible across his features. Jordan knew he didn’t look anywhere near that composed - his eagerness was probably all over him, in the flush of his cheeks and the quickness of his movements, the rushed quality of his speech as he tried to get rid of John’s family and friends. 

Finally the lads relented and John was getting into the passenger seat of Jordan’s car, and Jordan was driving them in silence towards John’s place. 

“Had a lot to drink?” Jordan asked, and John turned his head to look at him. 

“Couple of beers,” he said. “Bit buzzed.” 

Jordan thought about the ad he’d seen on telly the other night, the one about drunk people not giving their consent properly. It’d blown his mind to consider it like that but it made sense to him; and he wanted to be a good person, so he said “Do you want to do this another time when you’re sober?” He glanced quickly at John and just caught the moment his eyes softened, his brows flickering upwards ever so slightly, his lips parting. 

“I’ve had a drink, Jord, but I can consent - I’m consenting,” he said softly, and heat prickled up Jordan’s neck. “Thank you, though, for checking.” Jordan nodded and they drove in silence the rest of the way, the air tense yet comfortable. 

Jordan pulled up outside John’s and they ambled inside, moving silently and quickly in the dark, swiftly entering the threshold to John’s home. The place was empty and Jordan tried not to think about the fact that he was pretty sure John had somebody, had a family - he wasn’t here to think about the facts. That could be dealt with another day. 

He stood in the entrance and took in the bits of the place he could see. The house smelled new, like paint and new carpets and that stuff. John toed off his shoes and motioned to Jordan to follow him. They walked down the hall and into the kitchen, which was clean and spacious and all black finishings, with one of those big American fridge freezers and an island in the middle. It was nice, homey, had probably been picked by an interior designer or John’s bird or something. 

John was leaning against the island and his face was unreadable. Jordan crossed his arms and leaned back against one of the counters, smiled a tight lipped smile. 

“Want anything?” 

Jordan shook his head no. More silence. 

“You’re a strange fucker, Stones,” Jordan said finally. 

“Am I?” 

“I saw someone on the internet describing your style of play last season as ‘a faulty hand grenade waiting to explode all over the place’.” 

John considered that for a second, expression still unreadable. “You think so?” 

Jordan shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. “Not on the pitch, I think you’re alright. But all the other times. Dunno what to expect from you, like, ever. Faulty grenade is a solid description.” 

“I’m the same as all the other lads.” 

Jordan snorted. “No fucking danger, you’re not like any of them! No one else has asked me to wank them off in my gloves.” 

John’s eyes sparkled. “Half of them want to, I’d bet. Half the country. You think we’re the first ones in the history of the England National Team to mess around?” 

“Eh - yeah, I thought we probably were,” Jordan mused. 

“Not a fucking chance, Pickford. Are we even on the same team? Have you ever spent more than five minutes with Dier and Dele?” 

Jordan opened his mouth to argue, but then he thought about it - and yeah, it made sense. Still, none of them were in the same league of head-fuckery as John Stones. The guy was a riddle, an enigma. “Yeah but... actually, I always thought you and Kyle -“ 

“Jordan? I didn’t invite you here to have a conversation,” John interrupted suddenly, pushing away from the island. “I fucked it up last time, so what do you want me to do to show you I’m game?” 

The saliva drained suddenly from Jordan’s mouth, and he could only blink. 

“I, John Stones, want to put you, Jordan Pickford’s, cock in my mouth, and attempt to make you come through the ancient art of fellatio.” 

“Of what?” 

“Head, Jordan, I want to give you head.” John approached Jordan and dropped to his knees, and Jordan could feel himself getting hard without having even been touched. 

“Yeah, you can do that,” he said, and then John lifted up the shirt he was wearing and started mouthing at the bottom of Jordan’s belly, down the trail of hair there, fingers curling in the waistband of his joggers. Jordan bit his lip and watched John work and got suitably hard, hips moving forward of their own accord, wanting his dick freed like, now. 

Then John tugged and Jordan sprung out of his pants and John looked at it with his head tilted for a moment, and Jordan was getting impatient but he reminded himself he probably wouldn’t know what to do either. Sucking dick was nothing like licking fanny, totally different ballgames, and he started to worry that John would back out, that he hadn’t thought it through all the way, when John spat on Jordan’s dick and tried to stuff the whole thing down his throat. 

It was all teeth and Jordan couldn’t help but push John off by the forehead, both of their eyes wide, both of their cheeks flushed. John instantly started babbling that he was sorry, and Jordan was saying sorry too, for whatever reason, and John set his eyes determinedly and went for it again, slower the second time, bit by bit. It wasn’t - great - but it also wasn’t terrible, and eventually they had a rhythm going, Jordan slipping a hand into the longer crop of hair on top of John’s head and loving how his eyes fluttered when Jordan tugged, the only sounds the noise of the slick saliva in John’s mouth and the clock ticking on the wall. 

“This is payback for all the goals you made me have to save in Russia,” Jordan said suddenly, and John snorted a laugh out of his nose and started to choke on Jordan’s dick and pushed off for air, breathing and laughing at the same time. Jordan chuckled too and they just laughed together for a while, John resting his head against Jordan’s thigh as his shoulders shook uncontrollably. 

He looked up again and shook his head fondly. “I promise never to let another ball get anywhere near you if you hurry up and come soon, my jaw is fucking killing me.” 

“I’d love to, but Stonesy, you’re absolutely fucking shit at this.” 

John laughed some more. “I’m strangely very happy to hear that.” 

Jordan was softening and he was almost ready to call it a day when John took him in hand and kissed him, all over his cock, his eyes darkening again. He wanked Jordan off for a bit and then started to get himself off simultaneously and he lasted a paltry amount of time before he came, and Jordan realised that this meant that John was really, really into it, despite how he acted; all cool and aloof and silent all the time, and then he came himself, his ears ringing and his heart racing. 

They fixed themselves up and came back down to Earth slowly. If that was to be the last time, Jordan was disappointed - but also relieved, ready to feel normal again and stop obsessing over this. He looked across the kitchen at John, who was now staring into the fridge with his hip popped, fingers raking across the stubble on the back of his head. Jordan would’ve liked to kiss him or hug him, because he wasn’t the best with words and he wanted to show his appreciation and affection for the man somehow. He knew, though, that there was a line and he couldn’t cross it. He folded his arms around himself instead and sighed. 

John chose a bottle of water from the fridge and turned back to Jordan, smiling contentedly. “Alright mate, I’m gonna get off to me kip, try and sleep off the bevvy - when will I see you next? Probably be September?” 

Again, those tendrils of disappointment wove their way through Jordan’s stomach. He didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to have to wait till September to see John again. He put on a brave face. “Think so, yeah,” he said. Then, before he could stop himself - “Will you be getting with any of the other lads?” 

John froze, a look of disgust crossing his face. “What? Will I - what?” 

“Just, you said it was normal and that. To get with people on the team. Just wondered if you’d be getting with anyone else.” 

John closed his eyes and huffed a breath out of his open mouth. “Don’t be so fucking silly, Jordan. You know where the door is mate. Get home safe, yeah?” He pushed past and went upstairs, and Jordan stood in the kitchen for a couple of minutes before deciding that he needed to learn when to walk away, grabbing his keys and letting the door slam shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr! I just made it and I’m new and rubbish at it but we’ll get there in the end - belle-laid.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, there’s some violence at the start of this chapter - I was listening to a lot of Arctic Monkeys, particularly Brianstorm, and it just came out of me. 
> 
> I’m not overly enamoured with this chapter; it’s more of a vehicle to where I want this story to get to, so, try to enjoy, apologies if you hate it!

It was meant to be a friendly, but the game was shaping up anything other than friendly. 

England were 2-1 up in the fiftieth minute, and increasingly the game play was getting dirtier, the Swiss already had two yellows and players on both sides were being rough, handsy - and stuck in goal, Jordan was growing steadily angrier. 

He had the fans behind him roaring deafeningly, and was bouncing on the balls of his feet and watching as yet another scuffle broke out near the Swiss end of the field. Gareth had tried to talk them out of their collective irritation during half time, and Vardy had shouted “Aren’t the Swiss meant to be peaceful fuckers?” and Jordan had looked around confusedly until Kane had whispered in his ear “World War 2, mate.” 

Jordan Pickford didn’t much like people who refused to pick sides - in his opinion, someone was always the bad guy, and if you stayed quiet, well, you were just as guilty. So he’d stepped back out onto the pitch for their second half with a renewed sense of anger. Why Switzerland were playing like this was anyone’s guess; but they were hungry for it and they wanted a fight. Maybe it was Brexit. 

The scuffle he was watching resulted in a red card - wild, given the incredibly low stakes of the match - and then play resumed and the ball was making its way towards him. Jordan squatted down and analysed the situation - the ball was being brought up the pitch by Zuber, who had taken advantage of some terrible spacing from England - and was making its way right for Embolo, who was poised and ready on the right, Drmić on Jordan’s left - and the only defender anywhere near the goals was Walker, who was deliberating which of the two to mark. Jordan didn’t have time to curse his defenders and their absence, because the ball was coming at him faster and faster, and he was slipping into the zone, eyes never leaving the ball, angling his body low and coiling ready to spring - and then, as if out of nowhere, a pair of feet were sliding across the path of the football and intercepting its chances of making it to the strikers, Zuber flying over the legs of Stones who was behind the tackle. 

Jordan watched as Kyle took the ball next and booted it back down the end of the pitch, and his heart swelled when he looked back at John who, sweaty and disheveled but glowing, got to his feet and gave Jordan a thumbs up. Jordan winked at him and grinned, and saw the moment Zuber got up and shoved John, hard, in the back. 

It all happened really fast then; John spun around and shoved Zuber back harder, the pair starting to shout at each other furiously, Kyle sprinting over and attempting to pull John away - but then, unbelievably, Steven Zuber brought up a hand and punched John across the face. John went down, probably with shock more than anything, and game play ceased as the players raced over, the ref blowing his whistle and doing his best to mediate between Zuber who was shouting in German at Maguire, who himself was bellowing and spraying spit and getting up in the Swiss player’s faces. 

Jordan, on seeing Zuber’s hand connect with John’s face, marched out of goal, made his way to the scrum, shoved past Kane and Rashford and then Maguire; grabbed Zuber by the shoulders and brought the high point of his forehead right down onto the bridge of Zuber’s nose. 

The next thing he new someone had him by the neck and was pulling him off the pitch. He was shouting “C’mon then you Swiss cunts! Let’s have it!” and the rest of the team were following him as he was dragged away, refs and officials breaking them up and seeing to Zuber who now had blood pouring out of his nose. Jordan was dragged through the tunnel and thrown down on a seat in the changing room by Gareth, who was shouting at him like he was a school kid. Jordan didn’t care, was craning his neck to see where John was - eventually he walked in surrounded by the lads, his cheek a bit red but otherwise okay. 

They were all wired and full of adrenaline, shouting and fizzing and wondering what the fuck had just happened. John didn’t say anything to Jordan, didn’t look at him, but Jordan was just content to know that John was alright - they’d not had much contact since their last meeting anyway, so John was used to the silence. 

“Pickford! Are you fucking listening to me?” Gareth barked, and Jordan looked up at the England manager, veins popping all over his head and neck. 

“What?” He snapped, and Gareth pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“You. Should. Not. Have. Done. That.” Gareth exhaled through gritted teeth. 

“Fuck off, Gareth - he fucking punched John! They’ve been wankers the whole match! I’m not standing back and letting them throw hands at us and get away with it. No fuckin chance.” 

“Yeah, Gareth, they were making fucking mugs of us, it wasn’t on!” Maguire chimed in, and Jordan nodded at him in appreciation. 

“This would never have happened if I’d just called up Rooney and that lot, but no, I had to pick a bunch of twenty year old northern lads - what the fuck are you all thinking! You don’t take matters into your own bloody hands! Now you’ll have to attend a disciplinary, Jordan, what if you get suspended? What if you’re banned from playing?” 

Jordan shrugged. “Least we won’t be remembered as pussies.” 

Gareth had to walk away then, rage overtaking him. “All of you, fucking stay put. No one leaves the fucking room. And stay off social media.” 

——  
The aftermath of the fight on the pitch was a wreck. Jordan couldn’t even grasp the amount of damage control that was needed now, and he had been told off more times than he could count - the police had even come in, and somehow Zuber wasn’t pressing charges against Jordan - probably because John wasn’t pressing charges against him - but Jordan had still been warned and talked at for what felt like hours. 

They couldn’t leave the stadium for ages. All the lads (except Kane) had told Jordan they thought he’d done the right thing and would’ve done the same if they’d had the bollocks. John kept his distance, which was fine - ungrateful, but fine - and eventually they were released and allowed to head home, with the promise of repercussions to come and a complete ban on social media discussions of the game. 

The press were crazy outside the arena, baying like sharks and screaming things Jordan couldn’t make out. He had to drive through what felt like hundreds of them, flashing cameras in the windows like he was fucking Kim Kardashian or something. 

The drive home from Leicester was tedious. He didn’t have any regrets; he’d stand up for any of his friends the same; but he couldn’t help feeling like John should’ve said something to him about it. Maybe he was annoyed that Jordan had intervened and blown the whole thing out of proportion. His phone didn’t stop lighting up the whole way home, texts from family and friends and social media alerts. Jordan ignored them all. He got home and his girlfriend cried and cried and Jordan thought that was ridiculous because he’d been in worse fights before, but he held onto her anyway and assured her he was fine, and that things would be okay, even if he wasn’t sure of that himself. He turned his phone off and they went to bed early, and when she woke up early for work Jordan found it easy to fall back asleep, having nowhere to be himself and feeling bone tired and exhausted still. 

He woke up properly around 11, dragging himself out of bed and into the shower. He was a little bit anxious about what would happen next; about what this meant for his career. He’d been a little hot headed, yeah... but these things happened. It was what it was. 

He padded down the stairs barefoot and made himself a cup of tea. He considered driving to his Mam’s house, picking up some stuff from Tesco on the way back and making dinner later. He was on his way to go and put socks on when the door went. His initial thought was that it would be press, but he rationalised that they wouldn’t go to such levels - not at his home, surely not. 

Jordan opened the front door and was pleasantly surprised to see John standing there, in a jumper and jogging bottoms and - were those fucking Ugg boots? 

Jordan screwed his face up and opened his mouth to ask, but then John pushed into the house and said “Is your bird here?” And Jordan said no, and John took Jordan by the back of the neck and pressed his head into Jordan’s shoulder. They stood there like that for a little while, and Jordan was gobsmacked and nervous but suddenly so, so calm. He’d nut a thousand men for John, he thought. He’d do anything to defend John’s honour, because here he was, holding onto Jordan for dear life even if he shouldn’t have been, and he was smart and funny and witty and he was Jordan’s favourite person on the whole England football team and he’d go through a million fucking Swiss twats if it meant everyone knew not to fuck with John Stones ever again. 

John pulled back and stared at Jordan. Jordan stared back, and then touched the blooming red patch on John’s cheek, where he’d been punched, and swallowed when John’s eyelashes fluttered as he ran his fingers over his skin. Jordan pulled John into the living room, and they sat down on the sofa, John kicking off his shoes - definitely Ugg boots, fucking hell - and resting his head in Jordan’s lap, who took the initiative and started playing with John’s hair. 

Eventually John looked up at Jordan and said simply, “Thank you.” 

“Would’ve done it for anyone,” Jordan said, and John smiled. 

“I know, I know. That’s why we love you.” 

Casually, John brought a hand to play absently with the strings on Jordan’s shorts, and Jordan’s breath hitched. Eventually John wriggled around and pushed up Jordan’s T, kissing the skin on his stomach again and again, and Jordan’s whole body came alive and his hips shimmied forward and his cock came online very quickly - but then he was saying “Stop, John, stop,” and helping John into a sitting position, and putting as much space between them as he could. 

“We shouldn’t do that.” Jordan’s chest was rising and falling heavily, and boy did he want to climb right across the couch and crawl into John’s space and just... be all over him, just put his mouth on him everywhere and turn him on and make him say dirty things. He wanted too much, he knew - he wanted things John wouldn’t give him. He had to try and hold back before he truly lost it. 

“Why not?” John asked. He looked confused and a bit dazed but Jordan could see how hot he was for it, he could see it in his eyes and in the pulse jumping in his neck. 

“You don’t owe us anything,” Jordan mumbled, and John moved closer again, shaking his head frantically. 

“No, no, no, I’m not doing that to say thank you, I’m doing it because I want to,” John explained, and Jordan put a hand on his chest to keep him back again. 

“Why are you doing it? I’m just a little bit confused, John - I feel like we’re on different pages or summit.” 

“What page are you on?” 

Jordan didn’t know how to put it without saying something crazy. He knew he couldn’t talk about feelings or the future or exclusivity, he knew he couldn’t talk about kissing and cuddling and having sex, even though that thought terrified him. But how could he say that it bothered him, having a blow job and then hearing nothing for weeks? How could he say that his heart hurt when he watched John bounce up and down the pitch and he knew it wasn’t up to him, wasn’t on his terms, when he’d get to touch him again? 

“Just on like... I dunno. I want it to be more regular? I don’t know, I don’t know,” he started backtracking as he saw a flash of concern across John’s eyes, “not like a commitment or that, just like, aw, we’re both away, both excited after a game, I want to know I can knock your door and you won’t look at us like I’m crazy.” 

John still looked hungry for Jordan, still was leaning forward with a frantic expression in his eyes when he said “Yeah, fine, you got it,” and then manoeuvred gracefully into Jordan’s lap and started sucking his neck, and Jordan had to remind him not to leave any marks on his skin, and John growled that that wasn’t fair. 

And he canted his hips down to meet Jordan’s and it felt really, really nice so John did it again, and he tipped his forehead against Jordan’s and ground his hips again and again against the erection in Jordan’s pants and Jordan met every thrust with one of his own and there they were, dry humping like teenagers on Jordan’s couch, and it was both not enough and entirely too much, and Jordan knew he was probably leaving bruises on John’s hips but he couldn’t have let go if a car had driven into the side of the house. He could feel the heat building in his stomach and he held John down whilst he thrust furiously against him and John whispered encouragements, said “I want you to come in your pants, Pickford, go on,” and so Jordan did, because he was good at following instruction and secretly not too bad at coming on command. 

And then John levered himself back a little bit and resumed grinding against Jordan’s thighs, and Jordan just lay back against the pillows and watched the way the tendons in John’s arms flexed and how his brow was furrowed in concentration and he said “You’re going to fucking kill us Stonesy.” and John’s hips stuttered and he came all over his underpants, too. Then he fell forward onto Jordan’s chest and breathed heavily for a while, and Jordan traced patterns up and down John’s back and listened to his breathing regulate. Jordan wanted, like he’d never wanted anything, just to kiss John. Just once, on the mouth, just a kiss - what was a kiss compared to what they’d already done? 

And so he pushed John up gently and put a hand on the side of his face and ever so slowly he leaned in to kiss him. John swerved his head, and Jordan got his cheek instead, and John kissed Jordan tenderly on the neck and then stood up, grimacing at the feel of the come in his trousers. Jordan sat there and blinked and wondered if this whole thing was going to be the biggest mistake of his life. John asked Jordan where the bathroom was and they took it in turns cleaning themselves up in the downstairs loo. They reconvened in the living room. 

“You off then?” Jordan asked, unable to keep a hint of sadness out of his voice. 

John looked at the time on his phone and considered. “I’ve got something on at 3, so I could probably hang about for a while - haven’t you got stuff to be doing? Like, after yesterday? Have you not seen the news?” 

Jordan had not turned on his phone or the TV and he had no desire to; he’d deal with it later. “Nah mate, can’t be fucked.” 

John raised an eyebrow. “Jordan, turn your fucking phone on. You’ll have your hearing soon, your agent will be wanting to talk to you - what if Gareth drops you from the squad? Turn the phone on, c’mon. Do it now, when I’m here, I’ll help you.” 

As the Apple logo lit up on his phone, Jordan told himself adamantly that he was not doing this just because John had told him to. 

—— 

He was suspended from playing football for two months. He was lucky it wasn’t longer, and he was lucky Gareth wasn’t dropping him - he’d been told that in a three hour lecture from Gareth and some of the other head honchos of the ENT - he’d had to make a statement of apology, which he did not mean a word of, and he’d had to agree to an anger management course over a period of three nights. 

After the first month of not playing he was antsy and crabby and wondered if he shouldn’t have bothered at all defending John’s honour. John had texted him a sad face after he’d heard the outcome of the hearing, which Jordan had ignored. Then he’d spent his free time looking at pictures of John in training, videos of him messing about with Kyle and had felt jealous and resentful. His girlfriend knew something wasn’t right but he did his best to hide his inner turmoil, which wasn’t easy for a guy who’s every emotion was written permanently across his face. 

He’d asked John to come over one time, after seeing a particularly hot video of him on Snapchat dancing to Drake. John had replied ‘busy mate sorry!’ and Jordan had thrown his phone across the room. Some of the other lads had texted him after training sessions saying they missed him and that Butland was shit, and that always made him feel a bit better, but it didn’t eradicate the fomo, or scratch the itch under his skin to be back on a pitch, worked to the bone, satisfied. 

About a week before England’s game against the USA, Jordan woke up to a text in his phone that said, 

has anyone ever told you about ur arse?   
Its fuckin unreal  
I want to put my face in it 

And Jordan had replied ‘don’t make fun of me’ and John hadn’t responded to that. 

When the ENGvUSA game happened, Jordan went to the pub with his friends and tried his best to keep a low profile. It was weird watching them on TV, and his heart leapt every time John was on the ball or on the screen. Jordan was quiet and sad and nursing a pint when his friend Ross said “Dunno who’s fucking worse like, Stones or Sterling? Fucking useless.” 

Jordan rounded on him. “Eh? What the fuck did you just say?” 

Ross frowned at Jordan and shrugged. “What? They’re shite, Jord - “ 

“What the fuck do you know? You’re a fucking insurance salesman?” Jordan snapped, and the lads fell silent. 

“What’s your fucking problem?” Ross asked, his voice levelled, letting Jordan know he meant no nonsense. “What is it to you if I don’t like some of the players?” 

“They’re my fucking friends Ross mate, m’not gonna let you sit and talk shit about them am I?” 

England scored and the place went up in cheers of happiness and Ross and Jordan stared at each other coldly, until Ross shook his head and looked away. “Think you should stop standing up for your so called mates, Jordan, and think about yourself for once, eh? Who’s out there playing and who’s sat in the pub watching it?” And then Ross got up from the table and made his way to the smoking area, and no one else could look Jordan in the eye. 

Eventually it became too much for him, watching the boys on TV but especially John, his lean body, the way his shirt pulled up around his hips when he was laid on the floor - Jordan could swear he saw the hint of a bruise on his hip, just the shape of the pad of a finger - the casual contact he would make with the others when someone scored, how relaxed and happy he looked out there. It was irritating because Jordan was miserable and he missed him and the same wasn’t true for John. Jordan didn’t know how to cut him out without causing shit and jeopardising the team and creating a big clusterfuck. He caught himself wondering whether John was fucking around with bloody Ruben, who was an unbelievably good looking bastard, when they spent a suspicious amount of time chin wagging whilst coming off the pitch for half time and that was when Jordan knew enough was enough. 

He made his excuses and went home. He picked up a chinese on the way back and ate it watching the X Factor with his bird, feet up and comfies on. At least this had been the last international game he’d miss; there were only two weeks left of his ban and he’d be free again; and he clung to that thought like a life raft. He went to bed early, deciding to get up in the morning and go for a long run. When he woke up he had a text from John that said ‘I miss you so bad’ and Jordan ran and ran and ran and ran. 

—— 

The ban lifted and Jordan got back into it like his life depended on it. He’d never played so well, trying hard to prove himself and make up for what he’d done. Being back at Everton was lovely and he felt more like himself every single day.

England had another game coming up, the final of the year, and Jordan wasn’t going to be allowed to play, but he’d be allowed to go to training and be at the game and that was enough for him. 

He was angry at John, still, for slipping off the radar like that during his ban, for hearing that Jordan had wanted things to become regular but then not seeing him for two months. Jordan had no one to talk to about this, which only made it worse, and he resolved to say no to John until such a time as he was willing to treat Jordan with respect. And so he’d gone to their first training session together with a stoic resolve - he’d stand his ground, he’d treat John like any other team member, he’d say no when John came looking for a quickie - and then John had walked into the changing room like the happy go lucky ray of sunshine he was, a beacon of calm intelligence and wit and big blue eyes and Jordan wanted to go incredible hulk all over the place. 

Jordan wasn’t even the first person John gravitated to, and Jordan’s back was starting to get up, frustration and sadness clouding around his head like smoke. And again, there was John and Ruben laughing and touching and talking about smart people stuff and Jordan honestly could’ve cried. Did John really care about him so little? When Jordan was in a room with John Stones, he wanted to do nothing else but be next to him and hear his voice and have his attention. The realisation that John did not share such a desire made Jordan want to throw up. 

And so they’d gone out onto the pitch, to run drills, to practice and train, and John had nodded and waved at Jordan and that was it, and he’d grown sadder and angrier until he was like a shaken can of cola, ready to burst. John was playing keepy-uppy with Kyle and had laughed and said “You’re usually better at getting it up than that!” and Jordan exploded. 

“FUCK YOU!” He bellowed, and everyone froze and stopped. “FUCK. YOU!!” He pointed at John. 

John held his hands up and looked around like he wanted someone to explain what the fuck was going on. They’d all seen Jordan erupt before, and at John too, but never like this - and given the last few months, this outburst would not go down well. 

“Off. Now.” Gareth hissed in Jordan’s ear suddenly. Jordan didn’t need to be told twice. He stormed off the pitch, head down, fists clenched. He punched the wall when he got into the changing rooms and shouted in frustration. He heard someone come in behind him and he turned around to give John another mouthful but it wasn’t John; it was Harry Maguire, concern etched into his features. 

“What the fuck’s going on with you, mate?you’ve been funny since Russia, Jordan, what’s going on?” He asked, keeping his distance. 

Jordan looked at him and he thought of a hundred different lies to tell, but he was so, so exhausted and so, so lonely and he wanted to tell someone. “Stones,” he managed. 

“What about him? Has he been bullying you?” 

Jordan laughed at that because how could he not? “Fuck sake Harry, no, he’s - we’ve been - “ he couldn’t say it, he couldn’t say the words, and Harry was frowning at him, trying to understand, and Jordan squirmed and said “we’ve been... sort of seeing each other,” and Harry’s eyes widened and he double took. 

“Come again?” 

“We’ve been doing stuff together, since Russia, and it’s fucking killing us because I want it more than he does and he keeps fucking me around and I’m so - “ 

“I’m going to fucking kill him!” Harry growled. 

“What? No - no, he can’t know I’ve told you!” Jordan said, and Harry must’ve been able to hear the panic in Jordan’s voice because he held a hand up and nodded. 

“Fuck sake, Pickford, what the fuck are you boys thinking? You’ve both got fucking birds!” 

Jordan sank down on the nearest chair and put his head in his hands. “I know, I know,” he groaned, and Harry sat down too. 

“You can’t go on like this mate. You’re about to get put off the squad, I can tell you that right now. Fuck me, Jordan, him? Really? He’s not even that great! Fucking Trippier has a bigger dick and he’s five foot nothing!” 

Jordan laughed at that and felt some of the tension leaving his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know where it all came from. I don’t know how to make it stop.” 

Harry sighed. “Just tell him no. He’s a wanker sometimes Jordan, you know that. He doesn’t mean it but he can be a right twat; right selfish. Stay away from him, mate, before you do something you’re going to regret. You’re too talented to lose your job over a fucking clown like John Stones.” 

Jordan didn’t agree with that, but it still felt good to hear, still felt like someone was on his side. John could be a dick, yeah, but he was also loyal and kind and hard working. Jordan knew that Harry was right, and he was going to regret it for the rest of his life if he lost his place on the England squad because of a bloke. Harry got up and picked Jordan up into a great big bear hug, and Jordan told himself that things were going to be okay. He would do this, could do this - he just had to get it together.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so lovely about the last chapter - you’re all the best. Here’s another one! It’s kind of short, I promise the next will be longer. Bon appetit!

So that was what Jordan did; he set his jaw and he walked back out onto the pitch and he apologised to everyone and he steadfastly looked the other way from John Stones. 

He knew that he could not go on the way he had. He knew that whatever this was, whatever it was growing into in his head, was exactly that - in his head; and if he wasn’t careful he was going to be stuck there dealing with it whilst John side stepped him and moved on with his life, his career. No matter what Jordan wanted Harry had been right - John could be selfish and he probably wouldn’t hesitate to throw Jordan under the bus to further himself. Jordan had to accept that and move on. It was hard because even when he was cold, Jordan knew John wanted it - he knew there was a potential in him to want it and the part of Jordan’s mind that asked ‘what if’ was constantly tormented by that fact. Jordan knew, deep down, that hope breeds eternal misery, so he did his best to lock it away - he worked hard to ignore his hopes and desires. 

Their last game of the year was two weeks out and Jordan focussed on it, on being prepared incase Gareth changed his mind and asked him to play, on presenting himself well and being able to represent his country again in 2019. 

He played with Everton, he spent time with his Mam and his girlfriend and he even watched Stranger Things on Netflix. Megan had to explain the plot to him a couple of times but otherwise it kept him entertained. He liked the nostalgia of the eighties and kept remarking that he wished he had been born then; and he wondered if he could pull some strings and get to meet that 11 because she was well cool. 

He went for a pint with Harry in Liverpool. Harry coached him on how to get over John - Harry being the only person in the world who knew how Jordan was feeling - coached him on how to stay strong, and Jordan just nodded and listened. He could see that Harry felt sorry for him, and he wondered what Harry knew that he didn’t - had John done this before? Was Jordan a number in a long line of idiots who were obsessed with John Stones? 

Harry had looked at him with kind eyes and said “Why Stones?” 

And Jordan shrugged and said “He’s not ugly, is he?” 

“Well no, but I mean - were you always interested in blokes?” 

Jordan blushed, couldn’t help it. “It’s not that I like, see lads an think phwoar, giz a bit of that. It’s not like I’ve been in the showers starin at you all - “ 

“I didn’t mean that.” 

“No, I know mate, just. M’not good at this, man. I’m trying to say that it’s not, like, men; just like, people, y’know what I mean? Pure just love people. I wasn’t looking for anythin with John when it started but like... he’s so interesting to us. Don’t you think he’s so cool? Like so smart and mysterious and that?” 

Harry looked at Jordan like he’d lost it. “Stonesy isn’t smart, Jordan, where the fuck did you get that idea?” 

“Eh? Course he is? He knows about loads of stuff an he cares about politics and that. They always direct press and that to him, that’s cos he’s so smart.”

“No, mate, they direct press to him because he talks slowly and people can understand what he’s saying. Plus he never says anything that controversial, he’s a safe bet. He doesn’t even know his seven times tables.” 

“What’s seven times eight then?” 

Harry shrugged. “I don’t fucking know. But neither does John, that’s the point.” 

Jordan didn’t agree with that assessment, and he felt a flare of defensiveness and wanted to ask Harry what his fucking problem was with John, but he was learning when to pick his battles. 

“Listen, Jordan. I’ve seen this sort of thing before, and it never ends well. There’s always one person wants more than the other. And I’m fucked off at John because he knows what you’re like, knows how emotional you can be - hold on, don’t look at me like that, it’s not a bad thing - and he’s still chosen to go ahead with it, and now you’re upset about it and he’s letting it roll off his back like water off a duck’s and I would love to tell him to keep it in his fucking pants. You know there was a whole thing with Kyle too? They kissed drunk at a party a few year ago and Kyle told John he liked him and John laughed at him?” 

Jordan stared in disbelief, felt his stomach clenching impossibly. So there had been others, there was a past - Jordan felt very, very stupid. 

“Why are you telling us this?” He asked Harry coldly, and Harry sighed. 

“I don’t want to see you hurt mate. I think you’re going to be big, you’re going to do big things. He’s only going to hold you back.” 

Jordan sat back heavily in his chair and chewed his thumb. 

“You know what? M’scared that now I’ve had him like, been like that with him, I won’t be able to see him when we play and not want it again. M’scared about how he makes us feel.” It took a lot for Jordan to be so candid, probably had something to do with the couple of pints he’d necked up till then, but either way Harry knew how much Jordan was struggling. He put a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’re going to get through this, okay mate? You’re not on your own.” 

Jordan got home later that evening and he cried a bit in the shower. When he got out his girlfriend asked why his eyes were all read, and he looked her square in the face and said “Just really wish we’d won the World Cup.” 

—— 

Their last match of 2018 was against Germany, at a stadium in Berlin. They’d been flown out two days before, and the pressure was on because even though it was a friendly, it was still a Germany game, and the stakes were always high. 

Being around John was hard, but Jordan was managing it. He surrounded himself with the other lads and Harry made a special point of never leaving Jordan on his own, and staring aggressively at John if he caught him looking over in Jordan’s direction. They were a team of young, dynamic and interesting people, and Jordan tried to find someone else who was as cool as John Stones. He managed a five minute conversation with Hart about white bread versus brown and decided that he was setting himself an impossible task. 

John seemed to be able to tell that he’d pushed it too far and avoided Jordan for the most part, occasionally smiling at him or saying something for his benefit - and Jordan did his best not to think of how he looked when he came, or how his hair was so soft, or how when Jordan was with him he really felt like he was at the centre of the known universe; that nothing could happen that would be more exciting than the things going on in John’s mind. 

Jordan wasn’t allowed to play in the end, he did have to be benched, but that was okay - he was happy to be there in any capacity. The stadium atmosphere was electric and there was such a buzz amongst the team before they went out, such a feeling of excitement and unity and Jordan wished he could be out there with them. They were bouncing off one another and wanted to end the year on a high. Gareth gave a big speech about how far they’d come in 2018, and how things were only going to get better, and then someone played Satisfaction by Benni Benassi and they all jumped around like kids at a school disco, getting into the zone, and then it was time to play. 

The game was incredible. They played flawlessly, they scored goals that were goals in their own merit and not free kicks or penalties, they ran rings around the Germans, they were on fire - John was on fire, particularly charismatic on the field, even scoring a goal just before half time, and Jordan stood there and watched him celebrate and enjoy himself and he wanted to absorb all that energy, to put his arms around John and squeeze him and possess him and have him. Jordan was carried away by the adrenalin of the game, by the pride and love he felt for the team; for England, for how badly he wanted - just one last time - to have John’s attention centred right on him again. 

The game ended and England won 4-1, bloody unheard of, and the celebrations were incredible. All of them, all the lads, they were effervescent. They had a Christmas night out planned the next week and they’d celebrate properly then, but for the time being they were jumping about and cheering and shouting and were happy to have ended a great year on such a brilliant note. 

Jordan couldn’t help it, as swept up in the celebrations as he was, and he made his way across the room to John and pulled him into a one armed hug. “You were amazing tonight mate,” he said into John’s ear, and John put a hand on Jordan’s hip and squeezed and whispered back “Really fuckin want you.” 

And, Jordan was strong, yeah, but he wasn’t a fucking marine. He was whispering his room number in John’s ear when Maguire bounced up and grabbed Jordan by the arm, dragging him away, eyeing John. 

—

Jordan was strung as tight as a guitar string the whole way back to the hotel, his hands a bit shaky, his heart pumping heavily. 

He got into his room and didn’t know what to do, where to put himself, but he didn’t have to think for long because John was knocking at the door and Jordan was opening it and they came together instantly, John sliding up alongside Jordan as soon as the door was closed and burying his head in Jordan’s neck, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, running his hands up and down his back and holding on tight. Jordan cupped the back of John’s neck with one hand and used the other to pull up John’s shirt and rub the small of his back gently. 

“That was so amazing, Jord, so fun, wish you were out there too,” John said into Jordan’s skin, and his breath made Jordan’s neck tingle. 

“You were fuckin unreal tonight, John, proper proud of you I was,” Jordan said back. “You’re - you are so fuckin hot, I can’t stop thinkin about you, there’s so much I want to do - “ 

“You can do it, do anything you want, I trust you,” John said, bringing his hand between them and pressing Jordan’s dick through his trousers. He pushed his face harder into Jordan’s neck and said quietly “Is it weird that you make me feel pure, like, small? You make me feel like I’m delicate and little, like a little boy. I want to call you fuckin daddy sometimes.” 

It was too much for Jordan to process fully, he’d definitely have to go for a run and think carefully about what John had just said, but it made sense to him - it had articulated the way he had been feeling about John nicely. He was protective and he did want to take care of him. John was both a big lad and small at the same time - slim and quick, willowy, despite his height. Jordan was curvy and hard headed and more imposing and it occurred to him that John probably liked that about him, probably liked that he was a bit rough and tumble. And Jordan knew, then, what John needed from him; and why he’d kept on coming back. He wanted to be taken care of and bossed around a little bit and he didn’t want things to be cutesy and romantic, just hot and quick and messy. And Jordan could do that, because he wanted to be what John needed. 

And so he pushed John back and then down onto his knees and pulled out his semi hard cock and fed it into John’s mouth, and John’s cheeks were pink and glowy with sweat and he was so earnest about it, trying hard to be better than he had been last time, and Jordan looked down at him and thought how could anyone say that John was selfish or cold not smart when he was kind and giving and goofy and sweet? Jordan told John, said lowly “You are absolutely fuckin gorgeous,” and John looked straight up and into Jordan’s eyes and it reminded John of that fucking Megan Markle meme and he had to stop him there because he’d have come all over him, all down his throat, and he wanted this to last longer than normal. 

They looked at each other for a moment, and Jordan went “Get your kit off.” and whilst John did that, pulling his clothes off hungrily, Jordan rifled through his own bag, pulled out his football shirt, and tossed it at John’s feet. “I’d like to fuck you, Stones, and I’d like to fuck you with me name all over you, because right now you’re mine, and all those fans who shout your name might want you and your fancy fuckin premier league winning club might want you and half the lads on this floor might very well want you but you’re mine, right now you’re fuckin mine.” 

John was stood there, all white smooth skin and dark tattoos and red flushed cheeks and big Bambi eyes and hard dick and he just looked at Jordan. Jordan thought he’d overstepped the mark for a moment, and that John would laugh and tell him to shut the fuck up, but he bent down and picked up the shirt, pulling it over his head. It was big on him - Jordan was bigger, thicker - and he turned to look into the mirror on the wall, observing himself in the neon green fabric, turning to look at Jordan’s name spread across his shoulder blades. Jordan came up behind him and pressed himself against John’s back, reaching round and tugging at his cock a few times, kissing his neck. “You’ve got no fuckin right to look this good,” Jordan said, and John just smiled and pressed into Jordan’s hand. 

Jordan Pickford knew he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, and he didn’t care because he was still good at football and his Mam was proud of him and, most importantly, they always said stupid people fucked like no one else on Earth, maybe cos they weren’t in their own heads all the time overthinking every step, and Jordan was determined to prove that theory. So he brought his forefinger and middle finger up to John’s mouth and made him suck them for a bit, got them proper wet and warm, and brung them back down and pushed against John’s arse. Initially John moved away but then he was pressing back, and Jordan told him to stay vocal and tell him if it ever got too much for him, but John was into it - whether it was the buzz of the game or the end of the year or the lack of Jordan he’d had over the last little while, John was into it. 

Fingering another man’s arse was... weird, but good. Nice, warm, tight - John was so responsive, it was like driving a Porsche - the slightest touch of the gas and the engine would roar. If Jordan was a Renault Clio, John was definitely a Porsche, or maybe a Buggati or something. He was incredible. John was whimpering and moaning and watching Jordan intently in the mirror, and Jordan thought that this would always be the best moment of his life - like if he was the old lady in Titanic, this room would be the place he came back to at the end of the movie before he died. 

And then he moved away, and it pained him to do it because he didn’t want to leave John there on his own, even if he was a meter away. He rifled through his bag till he found his wallet. Jordan pulled out a condom and came back to John, waved it around, and then rolled it onto his dick. John watched him in the mirror with dark eyes and then said “Got any lube?” 

“Er, I’ve got some vaseline? For me gloves, like, but it’s half full?” 

John shook his head. “Never use vaseline as lube, Pickford, break the johnny.” 

Jordan bent down and spat on John’s arse instead, then, and John gripped the edge of the dressing table and watched as Jordan slid in, bit by bit, to John’s body. It was a tough fit, but John was relaxed, and Jordan gripped John’s hip with one hand, then took one of his hands with the other, laced their fingers, and asked for permission to move. John nodded and pressed back and then Jordan was building up a rhythm, and the table was banging off the wall and John was gasping every time Jordan hit his prostate and Jordan knew that whoever was next door could hear every word, but he didn’t fucking care. He had John here, in his shirt, bent over and moaning like a fucking porn star and he just did not care about anything else. 

John was just spouting various expletives - fuck, shit, fuck, fuck me, shit shit shit - and Jordan let go of his hand so John could wank himself off and grabbed him by the hair and said gruffly “Who’s name is written all over you?” and John just managed to get out “Yours,” before he came all over his fist and the table. Jordan really drilled it home then, anxious not to hurt John, and it didn’t take long for him to follow over the edge himself. He was still for a bit, they both were, and then he had to extract himself and clean off and get rid of the condom. He pulled John to the bed, who was wincing a little bit. 

“Are you alright?” Jordan asked him, and he was worried he’d hurt him. He’d given anal before, to his bird, and he thought he had the balance down between gentle and rough - but John nodded and smiled happily. 

“Just feels a bit weird. But it’s good, it’s nice.” 

Jordan pulled him down onto the sheets and they lay there together, touching wherever they could, John still wearing Jordan’s shirt, Jordan just wearing his socks. They didn’t talk because they didn’t need to, it was enough just to have been as close as they had been and to lie together in its aftermath, satisfied and sleepy. Jordan lay there underneath John and absently ran his fingers over his skin and thought that even though this was another six foot man, he’d never felt more masculine; more at peace with himself. It was weird and he didn’t understand it, he didn’t understand why he kept on coming back to this, but he knew that he liked it and he liked John and he was happy. 

Harry was going to kill him, that much was for sure, and he couldn’t even open the box in his mind that said ‘CHEATER’ across it in big red letters. Those were tomorrow’s problems. For now, England had won their last game of the year, Jordan’s career was taking off, he was happy and healthy and he had the most fascinating person he’d ever come across in his room, in his bed, in his arms. 

Jordan twirled John’s hair. “Stonesy?” 

“Mmm?” 

“What’s seven times eight?” 

“56, why?” John answered without missing a beat. 

Jordan smirked and kissed his head. “No reason.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve proof read this late at night with my eyes half open so, for anyone who reads it before I wake up tomorrow and check it properly, enjoy - I may well decide it’s atrocious in the light of day and get rid of it! 
> 
> As always, thank you thank you for being so lovely in the comments and with your support - what a lovely fandom this is, and how lucky I am to have stumbled into it! Happy weekend everyone!
> 
> (I fixed the format - so sorry if you were stuck with it as it was before! Happy reading!)

Bang bang bang bang bang bang 

Jordan pulled the sheets over his head and cursed whoever was making such a fucking racket this early in the morning. The worst type of fucker made noise when it was still dark outside, the worst type of evil bastard.

Bang bang bang bang bang bang 

He was going to bring down holy hell on whoever was doing that, if he ever decided to pull himself out of the warmth of this bed. The fury of Pickford was going to rain down on whoever dared make a sound like a fucking jack hammer right outside of his bedroom, disturbing his cosy warm cinnamon bun sleep, he and his not-quite-boyfriend John Stones, the great City defender and - 

Bang bang bang bang bang bang 

Jordan threw back the covers, grabbed up a t-shirt to cover his dick with and stormed to the door, stumbling a bit with fatigue. He wrenched it open and prepared to start screaming at the fucker who had woken him up but was met by Maguire, who was dressed and showered and looking at Jordan with one raised eyebrow. 

“Tell me you didn’t.” He said. 

“I didn’t.” Jordan replied croakily. 

“Bullshit, the place stinks of come,” Harry said, pushing into the room and flicking the lights on. He stood shaking his head at the end of the bed, taking in the sight of John who was propped up on one arm, squinting and looking between Harry and Jordan, his hair tufty and still wearing Jordan’s neon green shirt. Jordan joined Harry, his own eyes adjusting to the light, thinking that John looked cute as fuck surrounded by the duvet and pillows, like he was sitting in a little nest. 

“What the fuck?” John said, voice rough. 

Harry pointed at him. “What the fuck are you playing at?!” 

John sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?” 

“Time you fucking grew up a bit, mate,” Harry said snidely. 

“Harry, pack it in.” Jordan wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, but this was surreal. What the fuck was Harry doing? 

“Put some fuckin clothes on Pickford, bus leaves for the airport in 30. John, you’re out of order mate. Out of fucking - “ 

“Hold on a minute, what the fuck have I done? Jordan, pass me those shorts - what planet are you on? What’s going on?” 

“Harry, fuck off would you mate? It’s not the time,” Jordan pleaded, and Harry put a hand out to shush him. 

“Fucking around with Jordan like you don’t know what it’s doing to him? I can’t stand back and not say anything, not when its the rest of us that have to pick up the pieces. You’re out of line.” 

Jordan just stared at the wall, utterly mortified. He could’ve killed Harry for shattering the moment and embarrassing him like some sort of protective big brother, like Jordan wasn’t a grown up himself. 

John looked from Jordan to Harry and back again. “What is this, Maguire? What are you, the protector of the virtue of the England football team? You going on a tour of the rooms, telling all the naughty boys off? Eric’s in 236, just down the hall, dunno where Lingard and Rashford are but if you’re banging loud enough on all the doors I’m sure you’ll find them.” 

“Don’t get fucking cheeky Stones,” Harry growled. “You’re both adults and I can’t tell you what to do but I can tell you that I think you’re fucking out of order. You have no respe - “ 

“Can you tell me what it is I’ve done? Why me and not him?” John was beginning to look really pissed off, and Jordan could see it. 

“Everyone knows you’ll fuck anything that walks, Stones, so I think it’s a bit fucking sick to start making your way around the team - “ 

John jumped up out of the bed, furious. “You’re going the right way for a fight here, you absolute prick.” he pulled Jordan’s shirt off and threw it on the bed. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You don’t know the first thing about me!” 

“Don’t fucking call me a prick, or we’re really going to have a problem,” Harry growled, and John opened his mouth to retort but Jordan stepped in the middle of them. 

“Harry, I appreciate you looking out for us, but get the fuck out of me room. This isn’t on, and you know it.” He was measured in his tone but he was still furious, knowing he’d have words with Harry later and none of them would be too friendly. “I’ll see you on the bus.” 

Harry looked long and hard at Jordan and then shook his head, looking John up and down as he left. 

“Yeah, go on big man, might catch Kane coming out of Gareth’s room if you hurry!” John shouted as Harry left, and then Harry stormed back in, ready to fight John, but Jordan grabbed him and pushed him back out, telling him to calm the fuck down. 

Jordan managed to get the door shut and he turned around to see John gathering up his things frantically, his back turned to Jordan. This wasn’t how Jordan had wanted things to be; it was all going wrong. 

“John?” He said quietly, and John rounded his shoulders before turning around. 

“Do you want to tell me what the fuck just happened?” 

“Harry doesn’t think we should be doing this.” 

“Does he not? Couldn’t tell mate,” John snapped, yanking on his t-shirt. 

“Don’t be a fucking dick, John, I can’t fucking deal with this today.” 

“So you’re telling people I’m a big bad player - and I’m not fucking happy you’ve told anyone - a big bad player who’s what, coerced you into doing stuff with me? What’s the fucking issue? What have I done wrong?” 

Jordan pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t wanna do this right now.” 

“Seriously, Pickford, I’m confused - is it that - did you think we were gonna be boyfriends? What do you fucking want from me? It was just fooling around, just having a laugh! This wasn’t supposed to be a serious thing!” 

“A laugh, yeah?” 

“Yeah, a fucking laugh! Mates! It was nothing serious! And now you’ve got that fucking clown bursting in on me at 6 in the morning telling me off because I won’t put a ring on your finger? Come off it Jordan.” 

Jordan wanted to be angry, wanted to tell John to shut the fuck up, to take it back. He wanted to tell John that he had it wrong. That he didn’t want more from him and didn’t have feelings for him; that it was just sex for Jordan too. But he would’ve been lying, and besides, the sudden ache in his chest was too much, too painful. He’d let himself start to believe that John felt the same way, that he meant the things he said in those tender moments, despite how he acted the rest of the time. They’d slept together! How could John not care about him? In that moment, Jordan was blind sided by the ugly truth. Moments ago he had been lying in the middle of that big white bed, cosy and warm and with John right next to him, breathing steadily and tucked against his side. Now, now he was standing in the harsh overhead light watching John pull on his socks and retreat back into himself, closing the shutters on their situation. 

“If you weren’t - equipped - to do any of this, you should have said so the first time it happened. You should’ve said you - “ 

“Nah, I’m gonna stop you there, John - what the fuck? You’re really going to do shit like - like show up at me house unannounced, climb all over us like a horny teenager and do all that and then tell me av got the wrong end of the stick? You’re fuckin deluded, mate, fuckin wired to the moon.” 

“There we go! A bit of personality! About time like, was wondering if I’d broken you. Got a bit of fuckin oomph about you, that’s good - makes a change from standing there and staring at me like a fuckin moron. What else you got up there in that brain, Pickford? Anything?” 

Jordan balked. His heart felt like it had stopped beating, his eyes prickled with tears. “Get out of my fuckin room before I do something I’ll regret.” he got out, shock rippling through him. For all the things John was, mean wasn’t one of those things - nasty wasn’t him. Jordan thought that maybe he didn’t know John after all. He didn’t know what had just happened. 

John just looked at Jordan. He looked at him like maybe he wanted to take that last bit back, like he had hurt himself just as much as he’d just hurt Jordan. He looked like he couldn’t believe what he’d just said either. But John didn’t say any of that. He just held his palms up, looked around one last time, and walked out the door. 

— 

The bus was tense. John was sat to Kyle, earphones in, looking out of the window. Jordan was sitting next to Henderson and trying his hardest not to think about Harry’s eyes boring into his skull. The rest of the lads were still buoyant after yesterday’s game, despite the early hour, and were laughing and joking with each other across the isle. They had been on their way to the airport for about ten minutes when Sterling sat up in his chair and shouted “That was some fucking shag you must have had last night Pickford, I thought my wall was going to come down!” 

Some of the boys whooped and cheered and Jordan went bright red. 

“Oi oi Pickford lad, who was it? You’re a dark horse you!” joked Cahill. 

“Leave it, boys, yeah?” Jordan muttered, but they didn’t take the hint, kept pressing, saying that if he didn’t get to fuck the Germans in the game at least he had gotten to in the bedroom. Jordan was going to let it pass over his head, knowing he’d only end up exploding again and making Gareth angrier with him, but then Harry piped up. 

“Ask Stones who he was shagging.” 

Jordan shot up in his seat. “Shut the fuck up. Right now, shut the fuck up.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows at him, but he backed down anyway, sinking down in his seat and taking out his phone. 

The other guys who had been listening just looked at each other. “Something we should know?” Kane piped up. 

“No, nothing. Nothing going on. And I don’t wanna talk about last night so just leave it out, Raheem mate, yeah?” 

Jordan stuck his earphones in and turned up some hard style full blast and just glared out the window. It was a 40 minute ride to the airport, and from there an hour on the plane. Jordan wanted to be home now, wanted to see his girlfriend and make it up to her even if she didn’t know what it was he’d done. He wanted to scrub the feeling of John off his skin and forget about how he smelled and how he made Jordan feel. Knowing what he knew now; that John thought he was thirsty and pathetic and had just been fooling around made it easier to accept in his head that this wasn’t going to be a thing; that even though it had made him happy, it wasn’t meant to be. And that was okay. Jordan decided to take it as a lesson, to roll with the punches, to move on and get it together. He let the punchy music in his ears lift him and keep his sadness at bay, and Jordan told himself that he really did have things under control. 

He was sat on their airplane, shoes toed off and earphones in, alone and thinking of what he’d order from the Chinese when he was home when John had walked up the isle and plonked himself down in the empty seat next to Jordan. He looked at him with his big blue eyes and a wobbly lip and said “I’m so sorry, m’so so sorry, I didn’t mean any of that this morning,” and Jordan had used every shred of his resolve to shake his head sadly and turn away, recalling the things John had said that morning to bolster himself. 

John got up and moved away, and Jordan had to bite his lip to keep from crying himself. 

— 

When they finally got off the plane in London and were heading to their cars, Jordan cornered Harry. 

“Cheers for this morning, Harry. You really fucked things up,” Jordan hissed. 

“I’m your fucking friend, Jordan. I’m trying to look out for you. So it’s fucked up now; well that’s good mate, because you were clearly not gonna put a stop to it yourself.” 

“Why does there need to be a stop to it? Why do you care so much about this?” 

Harry stopped, forcing Jordan to stand still too. The rest of the team went by them towards the waiting cars that would bring them home, calling their goodbyes. John didn’t even look back as he got into his own car. Jordan looked at Harry. 

“You head butted a member of the Swiss football team and then called the rest of the players ‘cunts’ and you ask why this needs to stop? You know what, you obviously know best. I’ve tried to help, but you’re beyond it, man. I don’t know what else to say.” 

Jordan threw his head back and sighed at the ceiling. “Harry, mate, just - don’t get involved again, alright? That was too much this morning. Too fuckin much.” 

“Yeah, whatever, Pickford. I’ll see you at the Christmas night out will I? You bringing your bird?” 

Jordan had debated whether or not to bring his girlfriend to the England Christmas drinks. They would have dinner and then rent out a booth in a club in London, get drunk and dance and it was customary to bring your partner. Jordan didn’t know if he wanted to go himself never mind bring Megan. He shrugged at Harry. “Haven’t thought about it.” 

“You should. It’d be good for you, I think. Catch you later, Jord.” With that Harry turned and left, and Jordan ambled over to his own car, thinking once again about what he’d order as soon as he got home, unable to even begin to process anything deeper than sweet chilli fried chicken. 

— 

“So I said, someone better find a fat bastard sized Sweden top, because Pique’s in the market for one!” 

The table erupted with laughter at Vardy’s story, the amount of alcohol consumed and excitement for Christmas around the corner spurring everyone’s good moods. 

Jordan himself was having a good night, despite his last week from hell. He got home and slept for ages, longer than he had for a while, and spent all his time with his parents and his girlfriend. He was extra specially nice to her in light of what he’d done behind her back, and though he had no intention of telling her, he still acted like she knew and he had making up to do. He went Christmas shopping too and proper spoiled his family and friends, and tried every day not to think about John. The distance was good, and he banned himself from checking Instagram for pictures of John, eventually feeling himself healing bit by bit. 

Jordan had brought his girlfriend to the party in the end. He stuck to her side, and she was gorgeous and he thought he’d been mad to think about being with anyone else; to leave her. They’d laughed and chatted and drank with everyone on the team, sat near the end of the table beside Maguire and his girlfriend. At first Jordan didn’t think John was coming, but then he had waltzed in during the starters on his own wearing a black polo neck and black jeans and looking like a snack and Jordan had nearly spat out his mouthful of prosecco. He’d hoped John just wouldn’t be coming, but there he was, sliding into a seat next to Kyle - of course - and apologising for being stuck in traffic. 

Jordan ignored John’s end of the table. He concentrated on Megan and Harry and his food and did, not, look, at, John, Stones. Once the meal was over, the entourage milled around chatting and finishing drinks before they were to reconvene at the club. Some of the team left then - Vardy and his Mrs; Kane (to no one’s surprise) and Gareth. Some of the guys had cigars and Jordan smoked one outside with Ruben and Sterling, feeling like a 1900s gangster. He was happily drunk and as long as he didn’t look at John for too long, he could keep him out of his mind. 

“It’s a real thing, honestly bruv,” Ruben was saying to Sterling. “I mean, think about it. Gareth’s got it, inn’he?” 

Jordan zoned back in. “What’s that, lads?”

“Rubes is telling me about this big dick energy thing off the internet. You heard of it?” Sterling answered. 

Jordan laughed. “Nah, haven’t heard - what’s that?”

“Some people, doesn’t matter if they’re men or women, just have the energy of someone with a big dick, don’they? Like, people with total confidence and swagger. You’ve got it, Picksy, so’s Gareth -” 

“So you can have it even if you’ve got a tadger?” Sterling interjected. 

“Yeah mate. It’s not about actual dicks, it’s about your energy, you get me?” 

“I’ve got it have I mate?” Jordan laughed, taking another toke on his cigar. 

“You most definitely do. Dunno if I’d have said so before Colombia but...” 

Jordan play whacked Ruben in the arm, the three of them laughing and discussing the other members of the squad who had big dick energy. 

“D’you get small dick energy?” Jordan asked. 

“Aw absolutely. Like, let me think, who has small dick energy here...” Ruben looked around the patio they were on, peering in through the doors to the rest of the group. 

“Stones?” asked Jordan casually. Sterling snorted. 

“Yeah, mate, defenders usually do, no confidence required to kick a ball away from a goal is there?” they all laughed at that, and Jordan wasn’t sure if Raheem was joking or being serious, but he still felt a built guilty for talking shit about John. 

“Midfielders, on the other hand...” Ruben began, but then he was focussing on something over Jordan’s shoulder and saying “Speak of the devil!” 

Jordan turned around and made eye contact with John, who was approaching them with a friendly smile on his face. 

“Nothing bad I hope?” John commented, coming to join their circle.  
Ruben laughed. “Just talking about your cock. D’you want a cig, bud?” 

John raised his eyebrows and looked at Jordan, who shook his head in denial of the claim. “I’ll pass on the smoke, Rubes, cheers - Jordan, can I steal you for a minute?” 

Jordan swallowed. “I actually need to go and check on Meg, so I’m just gonna head back inside -” 

“Only be a minute, I won’t keep you long. Please?” 

Jordan couldn’t make a scene in front of Ruben and Raheem so he agreed reluctantly, excusing himself from the conversation and following John off to the side. 

“What d’you want?” he snapped. 

“I just wondered how you were. We haven’t talked since Germany.” 

“Er - alright - I’m fine, buddy, perfectly fuckin fine. That all?” 

“No - Jordan, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of those things I said, and I’ve been proper beating myself up about it -”

“What a fucking shame for you,” Jordan scoffed, looking at his watch. It was about time for them to leave, and he had to get out of John’s presence. Being around him was just too heady, too much - his smell, the colour of his eyes, the rumble of his voice in his chest when you were close to him. 

“Don’t be like that,” John pleaded, and Jordan widened his eyes in disbelief. 

“Fucking unbelievable, Stones, you - you really are like a faulty fuckin grenade! Every time I’m near you it’s something else! Why don’t you fuck off and bother someone else? I heard about you and Kyle, isn’t that more up your street?” 

John’s face fell. “Who told you about that?”

“Doesn’t fuckin matter, mate. You aren’t stuck for choice though are ya? Stop wasting my fuckin time. I’m here with me bird, so leave us alone.” Jordan went to walk away from John, but John put an arm on Jordan’s chest and stopped him. 

“Nah, seriously - was it Maguire? He doesn’t know what he’s fucking foaming, Jordan. What did he tell you?” 

Jordan shrugged. “You n’ Kyle kissed n’ you laughed at him. You’re fuckin sick, John.” 

Rage clouded behind John’s eyes. “That big fucking bastard - that’s not what happened.” John sounded desperate. “Holy fuck. That didn’t happen - we’re still - d’y think Kyle would still be my mate if that had happened?” 

“What did happen then?” already this was taking too much of Jordan’s time; he needed to extract himself; find a way out. 

John took a deep breath. “We were drunk at a night out, one of those random nights out, and we were all pissed and fucking around and our birds kissed and then they told me and Kyle to kiss and we did, just fucking joking around like, and some fucker in the club must’ve seen and sold the story to the fucking Daily Mail and they sensationalised - like exaggerated it - to fuck. I had to have my lawyers make them take the article down for defamation of character, they were making me look like a right cunt - Harry should know fucking better, Jordan - aw Jordan c’mon, why would I - what do you think of me?” 

Jordan lowered his voice. “Think you’re the type of person who leads someone on for months and then fucks them about, John mate. But you know what? I’m over it, I don’t fuckin care anymore. Let’s just get on with it, eh? We’ll still play together and that and see each other at these things, obviously. But no more of this fuckin whispering in the corner and shit. Leave us alone, please.” 

John opened his mouth to respond, but Megan had come out onto the patio and was calling for Jordan. “Taxis are here babe!” she called. Jordan waved at her and pushed past John, who was frozen to the spot. He made his way to his girlfriend and wrapped an arm around her, leading her to the door. Jordan felt empowered - he felt, for once, that he had some power over this situation. He resigned to get absolutely shit faced at the club and have a good fucking night, no matter what. 

\--- 

They were all absolutely fucked. Not that they couldn’t have afforded it, but the club was plying them with free drinks, the music was amazing - not quite to Jordan’s tastes, but he could deal with it - and they were all bouncing off each other, celebrating an amazing year. Three Lions came on at one point and all the boys swarmed the dance floor, throwing beer and drinks and jumping around wildly. It was a brilliant night, and Jordan had hardly even seen John, which suited him just fine. 

He was pouring himself another drink with the vodka they’d been given when Danny Rose came up to him, touching his elbow and shouting over the music, “I need you to come to the bathroom!”

Jordan looked at him. “Why?” 

“Can you just come with me?” Danny shouted. “Come on.” he tugged on Jordan’s arm, and Jordan put his drink down, motioning to his girlfriend that he was heading off for a minute. 

Danny yanked him through the crowds, towards the toilets. They pushed inside and the thumping music was instantly muffled. The bathroom was big, with a long urinal and six stalls - it was pretty clean, which, Jordan thought, would never be the case at home in Newcastle or Sunderland - and in the corner, on the fucking floor, was John Stones, crying like a baby and being cooed over by Kyle and Dier and Rashford. 

“What the fuck?” Jordan said before he could stop himself. 

“He’s fucking blootered, Jord. Keeps asking for you.” 

Jordan approached the circle of people around John, and tried to ignore the tug on his heart that he felt. John looked up and saw Jordan and stopped whining, instead allowing his bottom lip to wobble and then covering his face with his hands. Kyle, who had been knelt down beside him, stood up and looked at Jordan. 

“What on Earth is going on here?” he asked, and Jordan swallowed. 

“He’s fucked, is he? Put him in a taxi then.” Was all he said. 

“No, what have you done to him?” Kyle asked. 

“Piss off, Walker. I’ve done nout. He’s just drunk and attention seeking,” he muttered, and Dier, Rashford and Walker looked coldly at Jordan. 

“Why you being a prick?” Kyle asked, and Jordan prepared for an argument. 

“Hardly? This is my night out too, don’t particularly want to spend it in the bogs because Stones can’t handle his bevvy and he’s decided to start shouting my name.”

Kyle laughed, but it wasn’t friendly. “Alright, if you want to be a twat about it - I saw your finger prints all over his skin at the US game, made him tell me what had been going on. I know everything Pickford - so don’t fucking lie to me.” 

Jordan was speechless. He looked at Rashford and Dier, who were staring down at their feet. “When did he tell you?” Jordan asked, like that was what mattered the most at that point. 

“After the game, in the showers - what’ve you fucking done, Pickford? Why’s he crying?” 

Jordan wanted to crack up. John had had the nerve to be angry at Jordan telling Harry, and now Walker and Rashford and Dier and even fucking Danny Rose knew. Jordan scrubbed a hand down his face. 

“Can you leave us to it, please? Kyle, will you phone a taxi?” 

Kyle looked at Jordan uncertainly, but then agreed. “I’ll let you know when it’s outside.” He took the other men and they left, and it was Jordan and John and the occasional randomer who needed to pee. 

Jordan stood there for what felt like a while but could only have been seconds; looking down at John who’s knees were up to his chest and his face in his hands. Jordan eventually sat down too, then reached out and pulled at John’s wrists, freeing his face. 

“What’s up?” was all he could think to ask. 

John looked away, toward the sinks, and shook his head, eyes all red and puffy. 

“John? Look at us, buddy.” 

John brought his eyes to meet Jordan’s, and Jordan’s heart broke because he could see the pain in them; he could see how sad John was. And even though he, Jordan, was the one who was being strung along and treat like shit and made to feel like he was being used, he was still obsessed with John Stones and making him happy. “What’s up?” he tried again, softer this time. 

“I’ve fuckin blown it,” John blubbered. “I’ve gotten pissed and now I can’t stop thinking about how I’ve blown it - I care about you so much Jord, like I can’t tell you. I’m scared to tell you. I didn’t think I would, I didn’t think I’d be bothered, after the hand job in Russia, but I can’t stop thinking about it and it’s proper scaring me man, proper turning me inside out.” 

Jordan just looked at John, just listened to what he was hearing, and the thump of the bass from outside the door, and fought every instinct he had to take John into his arms and take care of him. He wanted to take him home and tuck him into bed and cook him bacon sarnies in the morning. He wanted to kiss him and hear his laugh and make him talk about smart stuff for hours because he was good at it and proper passionate and it was charming. He wanted to shag him until they couldn’t remember their own names any more, because Jordan didn’t know if he’d ever seen anything sexier than the centre back defender on the England National Team. 

Instead, Jordan put a hand around John’s ankle and squeezed, and said “You need to sleep. We’ll talk about it, but not tonight, yeah? Not right now.” he stood up and put a hand out to John, pulling him up too. John wiped his eyes and just stood observing Jordan, managing, despite his drunkness, to still have that intense expression he was so good at. 

Jordan acquiesced eventually and pulled John into a hug, feeling every inch of himself cheer at the contact. John melted into him a like a puppy, like a big 24 year old puppy dog, and whispered “Just want to be looked after,” into Jordan’s ear and Jordan mentally cursed every God and deity imaginable for making this his life. 

They were still holding onto each other when Kyle came to tell Jordan the taxi was there. Jordan took John by the hand and pulled him confidently in the direction of the exit - the back door, to avoid paps - and even briefly considered going home with John, laying next to him to make sure he didn’t choke on any vomit and playing with his hair till he fell asleep. But common sense kicked in and instead he told the taxi driver John’s address, folding him into the back seat and making sure his seatbelt was fastened. Jordan cupped John’s cheek and rested their foreheads together for a second, succumbing to the need to be constantly close. 

“Text me when you get home please, okay?” Jordan asked lowly, trying to keep their conversation between them. 

“Yeah, Jordy, I can do that,” John slurred a bit. 

“Drink two pints of water and try your best to sleep on your side - will your mrs be there?” 

“Nah, broke up with her. Staying at my Mam’s.” 

Jordan’s stomach clenched. “Oh - okay. Well, try not to wake up your Mam and Dad. Don’t leave the front door open. Look after yourself.” 

“Come with me?” John pleaded quietly. Jordan breathed out. 

“Can’t, bud. Can’t tonight.” 

“M’still so sorry, so sorry for saying that stuff -“ 

“Don’t worry about that right now, ey? Go on, go home and sleep it off.” Jordan let go of John and pressed the taxi door closed before John could say anything else; before Jordan lost it completely and got into the car and said fuck it to everything. The taxi drove off, and Jordan felt like he couldn’t breathe. He cared, so much, too much - he didn’t know why, didn’t know from where it had come, but he loved John Stones, proper loved him, wanted every part of him - and once again, he allowed himself to believe that just maybe John felt it too. 

As Jordan already knew, hope breeds eternal misery. He resigned himself to that fate, then - hope was the only thing he had, and it was the only thing keeping him afloat, and the consequences would come, but until then, Jordan let himself feel how he felt and want what he wanted. 

Jordan had to go back into the club and face Kyle, and his girlfriend, and the rest of the people in there who knew now - and so he steeled himself, squared his shoulders, and pushed back into the club, not ready for this but going ahead anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been super productive and on it with this so, rather than give myself a break and lose momentum, I just churned out the next one - here you go! Don’t read the notes at the end now unless you want spoilers...

John didn’t text Jordan when he got home. Instead he pulled himself up the stairs and into bed and collapsed onto his covers, passing out almost instantaneously. 

It was a dreamless sleep and he woke up early, nausea roiling in his gut and bringing him around in the worst way. At first he took stock of his physical maladies - headache, feeling sick, sore eyes - and then he acknowledged the rip roaring sense of embarrassment in his mind, the anxiety at his drunken behaviour. 

He’d really sat on the floor of a nightclub bathroom and cried like a big baby because Jordan was angry with him for implying that he wasn’t that smart. John hated himself. The correct course of action, he thought, would’ve been to remain calm and aloof and draw Jordan in through his charm and nonchalance - and yet he’d drank a bit too much, let his emotions get the better of him, and made a fool of himself in front of one too many people. 

John was a wreck. He’d been making terrible choices left right and centre - he knew he wanted Jordan, and that he could probably have had him - he was taking steps to clear the way for their situation, ending things with his partner who, although he loved deeply, he hadn’t been in love with for a long time, and had been closer to Jordan than ever before, sleeping with him and opening up - but for some reason, for some wild and infuriating reason, whenever it came to expressing his desires properly and telling Jordan how he felt, even to bringing himself to kiss Jordan - he panicked and closed up, scared he was making a mistake, scared of what the team and the fans and the public would say, scared that he was wrong and another man wasn’t what he wanted. 

It seemed to be easy for Jordan, who didn’t think too deeply into things - who just went with his emotion, not punishing himself for anything, bowing to impulse and accepting his desires as normal and okay. It wasn’t like that for John; he was a worrier and a deep thinker and every decision and choice had to be excruciated over for days, weeks, months. He’d stupidly told Jordan he had only been messing around with him, but he didn’t think Jordan would’ve believed that - John thought it was glaringly obvious that he cared, by his actions and the look in his eyes and his eagerness in their sexual exploits. He’d only said that to hurt Jordan, because he felt attacked and like a bad person in the wake of Maguire’s outburst - but he’d maybe said it too convincingly, too harshly. Jordan now hated him. John just really hated himself. 

He tried to sit up and the room spun around wildly. He texted his Mum and asked if she’d bring him water and a couple of paracetamol. She was there a few minutes later, looking at him disapprovingly. 

“How did you get home last night?” She asked him sternly. 

“Eh - a taxi,” he croaked out. She narrowed her eyes at him. 

“From London? Are you joking? Much did that cost you?” 

He didn’t want to think about that too much right now. “Er... I think it was about 300 quid?” 

“John!” 

“Please don’t shout at us, my head’s banging,” he groaned. 

“You bloody idiot, John! That’s extortionate! I thought you’d stay in London!” 

“Please, please stop,” John begged, pulling his duvet over his head. “I wasn’t making good decisions last night.” 

“Bloody right you weren’t! Three hundred quid! Do you think you’re a professional bloody footballer or something?” John’s mum sniggered at her own joke and then left, leaving his door open on her way out, of course. 

John waited for the painkillers to kick in a bit before he dragged himself out of bed and into the shower. He felt a bit better after that, deciding to brave a journey to McDonald’s - greasy, fatty food would sort him out. He shouldn’t have been driving but he did anyway, heading to the drive thru and eating his big mac meal in the car park. 

It tasted shit but it gave him some energy. John sat there for a while, thinking of his next steps. Jordan hadn’t text or called him, which stung a bit, but was probably fair. He didn’t want to go home and get another earful from his Mum. He didn’t want to sit on this situation again, leave another few weeks to go by before he was turning up on Jordan’s doorstep, dick in hand. He had to know what to do, how to deal with this whole fuck up. He had to be careful; half the team knew now, and whilst he trusted them he was still scared of press and the public finding out. He’d probably have to discuss the whole thing with Maguire at some point too; take him down off his high horse.

John decided to seek advice from someone who would understand what he was going through. He took out his phone and scrolled through the contacts, stopping at D and calling Dele. The phone rang for a little while, and John didn’t think he was going to answer, but then he picked up. 

“Y’alright Stonesy?” Dele said, sounding as rough as John felt himself. 

“Not bad brother, how you doing? Hungover?” 

“Fucking rough as a badger’s, mate,” Dele huffed. “What happened to you last night? You just disappeared?” 

John took a deep breath. “That’s what I’m calling you for. I don’t know if you’ve noticed or been told or whatever, but - well, I’ve been - doing stuff, with someone in the squad, and I dunno what to do.” 

Dele was silent. “Who?” He asked eventually. 

“Jordan.” 

“Henderson? Fuck, John... I’m not surprised, honestly, he’s hot, but no one told me -“ 

“No Del, Not fucking Henderson - Pickford, mate.” 

“Goalie Jordan Pickford?” 

“No, striker Jordan Pickford, three goals against Germany last match - yes the goalie! Who else?” 

“Sorry mate, I’m just confused - I didn’t see that coming like... you and Pickford? Have you even ever had a conversation?” 

“Fuck sake, of course we’ve - listen, can you just give me some advice, please? How did you do it? How did you know it was what you wanted, with Dier?” 

“God, John, I don’t really know what to tell you. I just knew, we were just so happy together. I was miserable without him.” 

“How do you maintain it? Like how do you keep it so private and that?” 

“We just keep to ourselves. People know, John don’t get me wrong. The public and that, they have an inkling. We just have to accept that, but no one knows what we do or that. That’s all between us. It’s like don’t ask, don’t tell, innit? Are you and Pickford gonna make a go of it?” 

“Nah, Del, I dunno. He’s not even speaking to me just now, but like - he still has a bird and that. I dunno if I want to be with him, like proper be with him, but I want to at least find out. I just... I don’t know what to do.” 

“Have you talked about this? To him?” 

“Nah. We’ve never spoken about it. Might be a good place to start, ey?” 

Dele laughed. “Yeah, mate. Listen, I have to go, I’m just heading out the door for lunch. But you can talk to me whenever, send us a text or that yeah? You’re gonna be okay, both of you. Whatever’s meant to be and all that, yeah?” 

“Yeah, Del. Thank you, I appreciate it.” 

“Any time boss. Chin up mate. Catch you later.” 

He hung up, and John was no closer to knowing what to do. They had to talk; he had to talk it out with Jordan. John hovered over Jordan’s contact for a few seconds and then pressed the call button, his heart thumping. 

Jordan answered on the third ring. “You didn’t text me to say you were safe,” he said instantly. John’s stomach clenched at the sound of Jordan’s voice. 

“You didn’t text to ask if I was safe.” 

“Are you safe?” 

“Yeah, I’m alright.” 

“Alright, good stuff.” 

They were quiet for a bit, both just on the line, saying nothing. 

“Can we meet?” John asked quietly. 

“Dunno, John... what for? So you can suck me dick and then not speak to me for two weeks?” 

“I want to explain some stuff. I want to talk to you, we never just talk.” 

“That’s not my fault,” Jordan muttered, but then he sighed in defeat. “Where are you? Barnsley? Want to pick me up in a couple hours?” 

“Can you come to me? Can’t drive that far, m’too hungover.” 

“Eh - yeah, alright. But I’ll take a while longer, got some stuff to do here. Much was that taxi last night by the way?” 

“Too fuckin much, Jord. Alright, let us know when you’re five minutes away. I’ll text you me Mam’s address.” 

“Sound,” Jordan said, then hung up. 

John sat there a little while longer, considered phoning Maguire and having it out with him too, but decided he couldn’t stand that today. He started the engine and went home, lying on the couch with the Christmas tree shining in the corner and eventually he fell asleep, the hangover taking him away. 

— 

John woke up to his Mum smacking him on the legs, hissing “Your friend’s here, wake up John!” 

John sat up groggily and looked around, wiping some drool off his cheek. It was dark outside and The Chase was on the TV, and in the kitchen he could hear his Dad’s voice and his favourite Geordie lilt and he sprang up, zipping past his Mum and into the other room. 

He entered the kitchen and saw his Dad and Jordan leaning against the counter, both with a cup of tea. John rubbed his eyes and said “Jordan, y’alright?” Softly, wishing he existed in a universe where it would’ve been okay for him to go right over there and fold himself into Jordan’s side. 

Instead he tugged his sleeves over his hands and folded his arms whilst he listened to his Dad talk, foaming nonsense about Sunderland and Everton as Jordan nodded and interjected dutifully. 

Eventually John’s Mum intervened. “Alright, Pete, let’s leave them to it eh?” 

John started toward the door and motioned to Jordan to follow him. “We’ll go upstairs - c’mon, Jordan.” 

“See yous later,” Jordan said, draining the last of his tea and following John. “Thanks again for the brew.” 

They passed the living room and John led Jordan up the stairs, showing him into his childhood bedroom. Jordan looked around for a minute, quietly fascinated by John’s things, imagining him in this room as a child. John watched him, feeling too big for his skin, anxious with the hangover and nervous for how this would go. He felt like he was on the brink of a panic attack, thinking that if he could never touch Jordan he’d never be happy again. His breath hitched at the thought, and Jordan turned around, looking at him suspiciously. 

“Why do you look like that?” Jordan said bluntly. 

John was confused. “Like what?” 

“You’re quivering like an abused dog.” 

“Get bad hangover anxiety when I’ve been drinkin vodka,” he muttered. “Can - can I just have a cuddle?” He asked hopefully. 

“I didn’t come here for all that, John. First it’s a cuddle, next we’re in that bed with no clothes on - no, m’not doing it anymore. I thought you didn’t care? I don’t fuckin know if I’m coming or going.” He plonked himself down on the bed, his arms folded. 

“Well - alright, let me speak, let me just explain? Alright?” 

“Yes, that’s why I’m here. Go on.” 

“Well, basically. It’s just that -“ he froze, could feel himself clamming up again, panicking with Jordan’s eyes on him. He crossed the floor quick before Jordan could stop him and dumped himself at Jordan’s feet, pushing his face into Jordan’s jogging bottom clad legs. The problem was, John knew Jordan was into it - but he didn’t think he was THAT into it. He knew the situation was disposable for Jordan, believed that Jordan’s frustrations with John came not from a place of emotion, but an anger at feeling like he didn’t have control of the situation. John was terrified to relinquish that control, to put it all out there. How could he ask Jordan to baby him and look after him and do all the things he wanted without things going awry; without him being left humiliated? Jordan hadn’t even broken up with his girlfriend. The whole situation was a smoking gun. 

“What’s the matter? Do you think I’m too thick to understand what you’re going to say?” 

Just like that, John was crying again, his face still pressed into Jordan’s legs. He could hardly breathe but he couldn’t stand to move and be scrutinised when he was like this. Jordan did nothing, said nothing. A minute or two passed. 

“Can you at least explain why you asked me for a hand job, right back at the start?” 

John took a stuttering breath and sat back again, crossing his legs and rubbing at his eyes once more. He breathed out. “That time, it was just a fascination thing. I did just want to see what would happen. I enjoyed it, I liked it, but I didn’t think of it again. You kept texting us after it, in the break, and I didn’t know why because we weren’t gonna do it again. But then you came to us with that thing about the gloves. I stood in my room and debated for so long, whether I should go to your room or not, cos I knew if I did it would change everything. I started having these fantasies and thoughts about you, all this stuff about you like, dominating me and that. I got drunk and phoned you, for the BJ. I shouldn’t have, but I wanted to. And you said that thing about me getting with the other lads and I dunno, I was so hurt. You thinking I’m a right slag just as much as everyone else -“ 

“Don’t think that.” 

“Alright, well, I thought you did. I dunno, I was scared. I wouldn’t - I couldn’t, like, kiss you or that, because -“ John put his head in his hands, unable to continue. 

“Because you didn’t want us to think it was more than shagging?” Jordan supplied, and John shook his head vigorously. 

“No, fuck sake, no. I was scared of you being turned off if it was too much like. Too much like a man, y’know, if you got my stubble or that.” 

“John, I’ve shagged your arse and wanked you off more than I’ve played fucking football over the last few months.” 

John blushed, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I know, there’s no logic, I’ve been so stupid. Jordan, I’ve been so stupid.” 

He looked up at Jordan, who was staring at him impassively, hands folded in his lap. 

Jordan squeezed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and then looked again at John. “Fuck sake, John, come here,” he said at once, and John didn’t need to be told twice. He clambered up and wrapped himself around Jordan like a big koala, holding on for dear life, filling his nostrils with the smell of the skin on Jordan’s neck. 

“You’re like one of those labradors that think they’re chihuahuas,” Jordan said, and John huffed a little laugh. 

“I am a chihuahua,” he mumbled into Jordan’s neck. “M’only little.” 

“I keep telling meself I can’t do this anymore, John, and you’re making it so hard for me.” 

“I’m not trying to make things hard for you,” John said, hugging Jordan even tighter. “I know I’ve been shit, but I don’t try to do it.” 

“So - let me understand - you’re saying you want me? You want this? Or what?” 

John burrowed closer, so close that when he answered, Jordan couldn’t understand him. 

“You’re suffocating me, love,” Jordan said gently. 

John let up slightly, turning his face a bit so that his ear was resting on Jordan’s collar bone and his mouth was freed. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Even if you don’t feel the same way, it’s alright. But that’s how I feel.” 

Jordan shifted John’s weight and then brought his head gently up, so that they were face to face. Jordan’s cheeks were flushed, John thought his probably were too. Carefully, Jordan brought their lips together and kissed him, and John felt like the world was imploding. 

It was absolutely gentle and soft and sweet and nothing like Jordan as a person. He kissed like an archaeologist uncovering an ancient artefact, like a father handling a new born baby. John cursed himself for delaying this as long as he had. This was one of those kisses they did in the movies, one of those Leonardo DiCaprio in Romeo and Juliet numbers. John pulled back for a second, trying to catch his breath. 

“Chavvy boys from Washington shouldn’t kiss like that,” he said, and Jordan’s eyes crinkled up at the sides. 

“Nah, but all the world class professional goal keepers do.” He kissed John again, just once, then said “Anyway, got to be gentle with you haven’t I,” he kissed John again, “Got to be extra careful with something as delicate as you.” 

Colour flamed up John’s cheeks, and he tipped his chin down and lowered his eye lids in an uncharacteristic display of coyness, pleasure licking up his spine like flames, and Jordan laughed softly and muttered “Fucking hell, Stones,” before kissing him some more. 

Then Jordan was laying John back against the pillows at the head of the bed, making quick work of both of their clothes. John was so pliant and warm and needy, just allowing himself to be moved around however was necessary, never taking his eyes off Jordan, mouth always searching for his where he could. Jordan got them both naked, and they just ground against each other for a bit, both hard and ready. 

John let himself be all whimpery and clingy, and Jordan was good about it, making John feel surrounded and boxed in. John stopped kissing Jordan long enough to ask him “Why my room, that first night?” 

Jordan kissed his neck. “Kane’s too annoying, no one else is that smart. Had to be you. Do you have a johnny?” 

John kissed him some more. “Yeah, in my toilet bag on the desk - lube too,” he breathed. 

“Give us a second,” Jordan said, and John resented the 10 seconds he was gone, but he liked watching Jordan’s naked body, so he focussed on that. 

Jordan came back to him and kissed him some more. John put his hands on either side of Jordan’s face and held him there, tongues sliding together, and then pushing him a back a little so he could speak. “Sometimes I wish I was as small as Trippier,” he blurted, and Jordan just blinked at him. “I didn’t get this height till I were like 17. Hate it. I wish I was I could swap with Trips.” 

Jordan smiled in wonder at him. “John, you’re perfect as you are,” he said. “But if it makes you feel better I think you are tiny.” He picked up one of John’s wrists, wrapped his thumb and finger around it. “Tiny, see?” 

John smiled. “You’re the best,” he sighed, leaning in for Jordan’s mouth again. 

Jordan kissed him for another second and then lubed up his fingers and pressed into him. John liked it, he absolutely loved the feeling of being full and possessed - it was weird initially, but nice, so nice. He was enjoying the sensation when Jordan brushed his prostate and he moaned and Jordan froze. “Fuck, your parents?” He said, worried. 

“They can’t hear a thing, living room’s at the other side of the house. Been having sex in this room for years,” John said, and then he was wiggling around impatiently. “Again, again,” he pleaded, and Jordan didn’t look like he believed him but he continued anyway. 

Jordan fingered him slowly and purposefully, pushing himself up with one arm and just staring down at him. John looked up at Jordan like he was seeing stars for the first time, like there was a miracle taking place over his head, right there on the faded blue sheets of his childhood, and maybe there was. He was so sure he’d blown it, but here they were. He couldn’t have felt any luckier. 

Then Jordan was getting the condom on, dousing himself with lube, sliding his cock into John. He rested his forehead on John’s and they didn’t break eye contact once, huffing into each other’s mouths, John’s knees up around Jordan’s ribs. John wanked himself off in time with Jordan’s pace and they were so wrapped up in each other. 

“I don’t - think - you’re stupid,” John panted, and Jordan frowned. 

“Ey?” He gasped, his stroke faltering for a second. 

“You’re - so, smart -,” John got out in time with Jordan’s thrusts, “Predicting - those - penalties - and stuff - fuck, Jordan, fuck, like that - you’re - so intuitive,” he moaned, and Jordan just kissed him to quiet him. 

“It’s alright, don’t think about that right now,” Jordan soothed, concentrating again on their rhythm. He angled his hips a little to the right, searching, and then tilted himself to the left, and John gasped and Jordan started drilling, eventually bringing a hand up to cover John’s mouth because he was paranoid they’d be heard. 

John felt the heat and tug of orgasm in his belly, his thighs, and then he was coming, biting Jordan’s fingers and pressing up into his own fist, and he was so blissed out and overwhelmed that he barely noticed Jordan following him, his hips stilling and his weight dropping down onto John’s chest. 

They lay together, happy. Jordan got up and John told him to use a t-shirt from his laundry basket to clean themselves up. Jordan disposed of the condom in the waste paper basket in the corner of the room. They stayed on the bed for ages, kissing and touching and talking about silly stuff and drifting in and out of sleep. 

Eventually, as time tends to do, it got late and Jordan had to head home. He looked at his phone - he had texts from his girlfriend, who he was going to have to break up with, he thought; texts from the group chat of his childhood friends; an Instagram notification; a text from Maguire. He decided to open them later, when he was in the car, not wanting to waste a minute with John being on his phone. They reluctantly got dressed, John nearly derailing it all by accidentally on purpose brushing against Jordan’s dick, but they held it together. 

“We’ll have to try and see each other soon, before the game,” Jordan said, and John frowned. 

“Game?” 

“Club game? City Everton game?” 

“Fuck, of course! I let that go right over me head - end of January is it?” 

“First week in Feb.” 

“Yeah, yeah we’ll see each other before then. I’ll text you. I’ll ring you.” John said, and then he was showing Jordan downstairs, Jordan nipping his head into the living room to say goodbye to John’s parents. They stole a kiss on the doorstep and felt like teenagers again, ridiculous but exciting all the same. John stood in the doorway until Jordan’s car had disappeared around the corner, and when he closed the front door on the chilly December night, he could not stop smiling. 

——— 

Jordan made it all the way home and into his driveway before he remembered to look at the notifications on his phone. His girlfriend had headed to bed early before work the next day, his friends were talking shit about New Years Eve plans. Jordan clicked to Harry’s text, and his heart stopped. 

It said, ‘Jordan bud I know John was crying last night and trying to guilt u so I think theres something u should know. Me and John were sleeping together for a few weeks before Russia and then during the start of the competition. We called it off before the Colombia game but just thought u should know. I hope this doesnt change things between us. Give me a call when you get this.’

In a matter of seconds, the whole world had stopped spinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I have no idea where this size kink has come from, but I think John Stones would definitely have one if any of them would - he’s such a little butterball, he definitely wants to be 5ft5   
> 2\. Sorry about the whiplash at the end there! Don’t kill me!


	8. Chapter 8

Jordan’s whole chest constricted, his vision blurred, his hands and feet went numb. He could hardly breathe, a wave of nausea crashed over his head and he just made it to open the door before he threw up all over the ground. Jordan gasped and groaned and slammed his head back against the head rest, trying to focus on his breathing - nose, mouth. Nose, mouth. 

He read Harry’s text again - me and John were sleeping together - and he was sick with sadness and confusion and anger. He was angry at John and Harry, both of them keeping him in the dark - he was angry at himself, for not noticing. How the fuck could he have missed that? How could he not have known John had been with another guy? He was shit at giving blowjobs, sure... but evidently that was not a sign of how many men one had been with. John, Jordan’s John, had been shagging someone else on the team. 

Jordan was incensed with rage - the pair of them had fucking lied to him. He’d been so happy just a couple of hours ago, lying there with John, knowing that he was all in and wanted to give it a try; liked Jordan. Had he lied? Did he say all those things to get Jordan into bed again? 

Jordan felt so stupid, like such an idiot. He cried out in frustration and then just outright cried, tears of anger and devastation. The thought of Harry’s big hairy legs sliding around near John - it was too much, too disgusting, and it was all Jordan could see in his mind’s eye. Was everyone on the England team into men? What the fuck was going on? 

Jordan wanted to rampage and destroy everything in his path. This wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair that he’d get things going okay and then something like this would happen. It wasn’t fair that he had become so invested in John just to find out that he was fucking everyone else in the squad too. 

Jordan wracked his brain for a clue, a hint that he might’ve missed - they’d been close, John and Harry, but Jordan had assumed that was a defender thing. Harry had been strangely protective of Jordan but he thought it was because he didn’t want to see Jordan fucked over. It didn’t make sense, and he was so, so exhausted with the whole thing. Jordan wiped his eyes and slammed the car door too hard, standing there in the cold air, unsure of his next moves. 

He wanted to go to his Mum’s, but it was so late and he didn’t know what he’d have said to Megan. He didn’t want to see her, his girlfriend, because he had resigned himself to the fact that they’d have to break up - he couldn’t keep doing what he’d done to her, and even if it all stopped now, he’d still betrayed her. It had to end, he had to let her go. He’d do it after Christmas, he had decided. All he had to do was get through Christmas. 

But now Jordan had to deal with John too. He had to now play football with two men who had mugged him off and humiliated him. He had to accept that John was bad for him and finally move on - he had been there so many times, tried so many times to be over it, but this time it had to stick. John had been sleeping with Harry. Jordan was heartbroken. 

—— 

He climbed into bed and lay awake for hours. He slept for a total of 45 minutes, he’d have guessed. Jordan got up when Megan did for work. She padded out of bed and was about to get in the shower when she looked at him and froze. She knew, she just knew something was wrong. She looked at him, and her face crumpled. 

“I know you, Jordan,” she said. “Tell me what’s been happening. Just tell me. I can see it in your eyes.” 

He had cried and cried and cried and she held onto him, and he didn’t deserve her and she was too good for him but he cried into her stomach anyway. She was going to be late for work but it hardly mattered; this was the moment, they both knew, where the charade they’d been living had to come to an end. 

So Jordan told her - he skipped some of the details - he told her he’d ended up developing feelings for someone on the team, and he hadn’t planned it and was sorry. He told her they’d been physical a couple of times, and he wished they hadn’t. Jordan told Megan that he didn’t know what he wanted but that he felt he’d betrayed her, and thought she deserved better. She was amazing, she was so mature and understanding and brave. 

“I knew it,” she said, again and again. “I knew you’d fallen in love with someone. I’m sad, Jord, I can’t lie. But I’m not angry at you.” She was crying herself, her eyes full of hurt and regret. 

“Please don’t hate me,” he kept saying again and again, because she was his family and his childhood and they’d done all of this together - his whole career, together. “I wish I didn’t feel this way Meg. I wish we could pretend this never happened, I wish -“ 

“But it has happened, and it’s okay, Jord, it’s okay that it happened - You don’t choose who you love, do you, you don’t get to pick. I just wish you’d told me sooner.” 

“I’ve been so bad to you, Meg, so terrible. I don’t deserve you,” he snuffled. 

“Yeah, you’ve been shit. But there’s no point in being angry about it, no point in going over and over it in me head. You’re allowed to fuck up, and even if I hate it, your feelings are allowed to change.” 

“My feelings - they haven’t changed, haven’t changed for you - I still love you so so much,” he garbled. 

“I love you too, I do, I love you, but you don’t love us, not properly anymore. I’ve known for a while.” 

He wailed at that, wishing so bad this wasn’t happening. 

“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be fine,” she cooed. 

Jordan looked at her in awe. “When did you get so fuckin smart and mature, ey? Look at you, having to soothe me and I’m the one who’s the bastard. You’re too fuckin good,” He whined, love bursting out of his heart for her. He held onto her a bit longer and she eventually disentangled herself; she had to get to work, they’d talk about it more later. She got ready and left and told him to phone her if he needed her, and christ, God almighty above, was Jordan an idiot for this. She was perfect and he was the worst and the sooner she was free of him, the better. 

So his ‘after Christmas’ plan hadn’t worked, and now he felt heartbroken and angry and guilty too; guilty and sad that it was over, because he’d been with her for the longest time and he loved her, course he did. He selfishly wished there was a way he could have her and do all the other stuff, too, but life didn’t work like that. 

Jordan turned off his phone and tried to sleep for a while longer, but he still couldn’t, his mind racing with the image of Harry and John, thoughts about it being over with Megan after 7 years. 

He watched Moana on Netflix and cried like a baby at that, then he ate some tomato soup for lunch and eventually, around 3pm, dozed off. He was woken up by the doorbell and his stomach dropped. He couldn’t stand to see John right now - he didn’t know what he’d do if he saw him. The thought of John repulsed Jordan. He decided to ignore it - whoever it was would go away soon. 

The rings on the bell became more frequent until whoever it was was just holding down the button. Jordan lay there impassively, until he heard the letterbox opening and the sound of his Mum shouting “Open the bloody door you pillock, it’s me!” 

He leapt up and scrambled to the door, and there was his mother, concern etched into her face, and he was on her like a leech, the tears starting all over again. She smelled like always, like she always had, and Jordan wanted to never ever leave her again. He wanted his umbilical cord back. He didn’t ever want to be away from his Mum. 

“What’s been going on, eh?” She soothed him, rubbing his back in circles, the front door not even closed. “What bloody mess have you gotten yourself into, love?” 

“Oh Mam,” he cried. “Mam, it’s a fucking wreck.” 

“Language Jordan. C’mon, let’s get inside, get the kettle on. C’mon, you’ll catch cold,” she ushered him inside, pulling off her coat and putting her bag down, observing him the way mothers do. She herded Jordan into the kitchen and busied about putting the kettle on, fetching a couple of mugs. Jordan climbed up onto the counter and watched her. 

“How did you know?” He asked her. 

“Megan phoned me, bless her. She’s worried about you - you’ve finished with her? It’s nearly bloody Christmas, son, you had to do it now?” 

Guilt flared in him again. “I didn’t want to do it now, it just happened.” He mumbled. 

“Why did you do it, love?” His Mum asked softly. “You can tell me anything, you know. I’m your Mam and I love you.” 

Jordan looked down at his hands, scared and embarrassed and unbelieving that he was having one of THOSE moments right now. He sighed. 

“You know John Stones off the team?” 

“Yes, I know John, he was a nice lad - I got on with his Mum, remember?” 

“Yeah, well.” Jordan took a breath. “I slept with him.” 

Jordan’s Mum narrowed her eyes, doing the math in her head. “Okay. You like men?” 

“Apparently.” Jordan couldn’t meet her eyes, scared of what he’d see there. 

She was silent. She picked up her tea and drank some. She drummed her fingers on the counter. Then she came over to him, put her hands on either side of his face, and forced him to look at her. 

“I don’t care who you like. I wish it was Megan, because she’s family, I won’t lie to you. But I’d wish that if you’d been having an affair with a man or a woman. I don’t care who you like though Jordan, never have done, you know that. I just want you to be happy, alright? You have to be happy, son.” 

Jordan just cried a bit more. He was so lucky to have these people around him. He was so lucky this was his mother. “I love you,” he sniffled, and she told him she loved him too. 

His Mum suggested packing a bag and coming back up to her place now, for Christmas, to get some peace and quiet. Jordan wasn’t sure about leaving Megan but his Mum said she’d spoken to her and she’d be heading up herself in a few days once she was done with work for the holidays. Jordan wanted to see her before they left, so he and his Mum waited for her finishing work and then he hugged his now ex girlfriend and cried again, a blubbering mess, like it was him who had been betrayed and dumped. 

She seemed okay, sad but okay, and she walked with him to the car, saying she’d see him once she got to Washington, telling him not to beat himself up. Then he was on the road, driving home for Christmas, feeling like his life had fallen apart and terrified for what came next. 

—— 

He moped around his parent’s place for three days before his friends showed up at the door, berating him for having his phone turned off and offering their sympathies for his breakup. He guessed one of them had spoken to his Mum, and he appreciated it - they dragged him out of the house for the first time in days, not pressing him for details about his life, just being themselves - blasting rave music, laughing at the same old jokes, treating Jordan like he was still the sixteen year old lad they’d gone to school with. 

It did Jordan some good, and for the first time since he’d read Harry’s text, he felt a little like himself. He smiled, and he was distracted, and he was something resembling happy. His friends were amazing - no matter how many teams he played with, no matter who he met and where life took him, nothing could replace the people he’d grown up with. Nothing could override their sense of brotherhood, no one was as funny, no one liked the things they did. Jordan came home after their drive and felt like maybe it wasn’t him versus the rest of the world, for the first time in a long time. 

They had plans to go out on Christmas eve, his friends, as per their tradition - out to the local nightclub, home early Christmas morning, whoever was drunk enough to open all the presents under the tree and ruin Christmas for their family was the loser. Jordan had done it once when he was 18 and his Mum had battered him, really clobbered him up and down the stairs, and he’d never done it again. He said he’d forgo this time though, wasn’t in the mood to dance or party or be drunk. They didn’t push him too much which he appreciated. He still hadn’t turned his phone on. 

Christmas was fine, cosy, uneventful. He’d spoiled his family and they were all grateful, but he felt like it didn’t really count that much because he was rich anyway and it was just stuff. He should’ve knitted his Mum a doily or something. Next year, he told himself. 

He fell asleep at around 9pm watching Harry Potter on the couch, beside his Dad. He hadn’t told him yet, about John, and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to the conversation, but it could wait - everything concerning John could wait, Jordan had long since decided. 

Megan came round the day after boxing day. It hurt Jordan’s heart to see her. They exchanged gifts, and she brought round the things her family had gotten for him before they’d broken up. They all ordered Chinese and ate it in somewhat awkward silence, not quite knowing what to do or say anymore. All too soon she had to leave and Jordan felt suffocated with sadness. She turned to him in the hallway before she did and said “He came round, by the way. John.” 

Jordan’s heart skipped a beat. “Yeah? What did he want?” He tried to ask it neutrally, but he could hear the tinge of desperation in his voice. 

“He said he hadn’t heard from you and he was worried. I told him you were at your Mam’s and if you hadn’t spoken to him then he’d have to wait till you were ready. Then I... I slapped him. Sorry about that, I just couldn’t stand looking at his smug face.” 

Jordan stared at her. “No, don’t apologise to me. I’m sorry about that, Megan, me phone’s been off or I’d have told him to stay away from the house -“ 

“It doesn’t matter. He won’t be round again. Take care of yourself, alright? Let’s get together again soon, discuss the house and stuff. See where we go from here.” 

Jordan was pained to close the door on her. 

—— 

The week between Christmas and New Years was hazy and weird, as it always was. It was a mash up of TV soaps and turkey cranberry sandwiches and seeing his extended family. He saw Megan again and they spoke about what next; he told her to keep their place and he’d look for another one. She asked if he’d ever been with John in their home. He admitted that he had and she told him he could keep the house; she’d find a new one. 

Jordan thought a lot about Harry and John. He woke up after nightmares about John pinned underneath Harry, his hair flopping around on his forehead, his eyes wide and looking at Harry like he was in love with him. He imagined them lying in bed together in the hotels in Russia and fooling around in the changing rooms after games. Wasn’t it rich, he thought, that he was so repulsed by the thought of John with someone else - before they’d even started their thing - when he had cheated on his own girlfriend of seven years? Still, his heart didn’t know logic. It was broken all the same. 

Jordan thought about confronting Harry. He thought about confronting John, too. He didn’t want to ever see either of them again - he certainly wasn’t ready to see either of them and not want to fight them. He was scared of turning his phone on and being bombarded with confused messages from John. He was more scared of turning his phone on and seeing nothing from John, confirming his fears that he just didn’t really care, even in light of this revelation. Jordan was in his own personal hell, and he couldn’t shake it off. 

He questioned himself all day and night - How had he missed this? Had John shagged anybody else on the team? Had John been using Jordan all along, then? Did people know, were they laughing about it? 

His friends wouldn’t let him say no to going out for New Years. They dragged him along, to a club they were too old for, that Jordan was too rich for. He spent the night posing for pictures with people he didn’t know and being talked at by people he did know, vaguely - from school, from around town. 

He drank a couple of beers but he wasn’t drunk. He managed to slink off at around 11, and was at home and in bed before the clock struck midnight on a new year. 

—— 

It was January 4th before Jordan turned his phone back on, and he wished he hadn’t. He had a backlog of texts and calls from team mates, from friends, a bunch of social media notifications that he couldn’t care less about. There was one text from Harry that simply said ‘you ok?’. There were 26 texts from John and 15 missed calls. Jordan felt pathetic at the tendril of happiness those numbers inspired in him, before it was quashed as he remembered what he knew - John had been fucking Harry. 

Jordan didn’t open the messages from John, but he could see that the last one had been sent on the 31st of December, and that it said “Happy New Year Jordan, please please call me or summit, Im so worr...”. 

Jordan opened the text from Harry instead. He thought for a while, about what to say. Then he typed out ‘Tomorrow. Can we meet?’ And hit send. Harry replied ten minutes later, asking where and when. 

Jordan packed his bags, thought about returning to his life. He started work again in a week, training for some upcoming games. He didn’t really want to be in the house without Megan, but he knew there was no alternative. He had to get on with things. The thought of seeing Harry scared him, but he wanted answers. He needed answers, and he couldn’t stand to see John, he just couldn’t. Jordan gave himself a shake, put on his coat, and looked at himself in the mirror of his childhood bedroom. He could do this. He could do it. 

—— 

The first thing Jordan thought as he watched Harry Maguire walk into the the bar they’d agreed to meet in was - I can’t fucking do this. 

Here he came, the big headed fucker, the smug bastard - Jordan had to bite his tongue, to employ every shred of self control that he had to keep it together. Harry walked in, and smiled sheepishly at Jordan, tight lipped, at least having the grace to look embarrassed. 

“Happy new year, bud,” Harry started, and Jordan just looked at him. 

“Fuckin call me bud,” he spat. “Just sit down, I don’t want to be here long. Is it true?” 

Harry sighed and sat down. “Yeah, it’s true.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” 

“Me and Stones - we agreed, we’d not tell anyone. He said he didn’t see the point because it wasn’t anything worth telling. Just sex. I didn’t agree, it’s never just sex. But we decided on secrecy.” 

“How many times?” 

“Er - I dunno, Jordan, fuck sake -“ 

“Tell me how many fucking times, give me a ball park.” 

“Five, six times, I dunno? More if you include other stuff.” 

“How did it start?” 

“Fuck sake, Pickford, mate -“ 

“Harry, I’m not - don’t fuckin push us, alright? Just tell me.” 

“We were so hyper after we qualified. You know that feeling, mate, and we all went out, do you remember, we went out to the pub? We were both fucked, and we just wanted to shag something. Ferne was hours away and you know John, doesn’t care who, he’ll put it anywhere. Gareth did that ban on shagging random girls, mind, so not to bring bad publicity to the team. We thought - we’re both not gay, so it can’t really be cheating, we’re both horny. It just happened.” 

Jordan was quiet, taking it in. “Do you know if he’s shagged anyone else?” 

“No, just me. Well, that’s all I know about. Honestly.” 

“Why did you tell me, Maguire? Why was it so important to you that we weren’t together? Do you have feelings for him?” 

“I just - I was pissed off. I’m angry that we stopped things and he went to someone else, so fast - I feel disrespected. We say ‘just sex’ but it never is, you get attached don’t you - I mean look at you, you were attached so quickly! I didn’t want you to go through what I did, I didn’t want him to get to play with two people, maybe even more if he goes to someone else next -“ 

“It doesn’t make sense to me, Harry! I’m a grown up! I can make my own mistakes!” 

Harry sighed. “It’s different, amongst the lads. I dunno, I feel responsible, protective. I couldn’t do nothing. He’s a twat, a total twat -” 

“Well then so are you, you fucking lied to us and all.” 

“I’m sorry, alright, really, honestly. Are you okay? Have you been okay?” 

“No I’m not, I’m not okay at all. I’m fuckin raging at you both, and I dunno how I’ll be able to look at him next time we have to play, I’ve lost my bird and I’m the fuckin idiot who’s been lied to and looks the cunt. No, I’m not fuckin okay.” 

Harry looked away, uncomfortable. “I feel bad, Jordan, I do,” he said, and Jordan shook his head. 

“So the fuck do I.” Jordan had one question in particular that had been eating at him. He was scared of the answer, but he had to ask. “Did he - did he ask you to make him feel... like, small?” 

“Eh? Did he what? Like, his dick?” 

“What? No, did he... talk about wanting to be little? When you were fucking him?” 

Harry looked at Jordan strangely. “No, mate, we never really talked during it. Nothing like that, anyway.” 

And Jordan felt better about that, but he still hated John and Harry and everything they had done together. 

“I’m sorry, Jordan. I’m really sorry, I hope you know that,” Harry said. He looked sorry, genuinely, sincerely. Jordan still wanted to punch him. 

“I’m fucked off at you, Harry. Fucking furious with you, you fuckin betrayed us. But I’ll get over it. I’ll be alright. But if you ever fuckin do something like that to me again, I’ll smash you, alright?” 

Harry laughed nervously, but then he could see Jordan was joking because his face fell and he nodded. “Got it.” 

Jordan slapped his shoulder once and then left. He didn’t have anything else to say, didn’t want to look at Harry’s face for another second. He pushed over a plant pot when he got outside the pub and shouted at it for a second and then he was in his car and he was done giving a fuck about Harry Maguire. 

—— 

So he was training and keeping his head down and trying not to think about John and Megan and all the ways his life had gone awry before Christmas. 

Jordan had been doing drills at the Everton training ground all morning, midway through January, when John had come looking for him. It was freezing cold outside and the drills had been brutal, a test of his fitness post holidays more than anything else. He retreated to the showers afterwards and stood under the warm spray for a while, washing his hair twice just to prolong the comfort of the warm water. He was the last one in there, and then he took his time drying off, getting dressed again. 

Jordan was walking down the corridor toward the car park when he’d passed two younger lads, youth team boys, talking excitedly to each other. He heard a snippet of their conversation - “Such an idol, second most expensive defender ever! Can’t believe I’ve just met him, wait till I tell my Dad, man!” and Jordan’s heart leapt. 

“Hoy - what did you say?” He stopped them, and they were both pretty impressed by Jordan alone, but not massively so - he was part of the furniture by then. 

“John Stones is in reception!” The taller of the two cried gleefully, and Jordan must’ve looked confused because then the boy said “From City? You know, the defend-“ 

“I know who John Stones is,” Jordan snapped. 

“Aw yeah, you were on England duty together!” The lad said nervously, and Jordan just walked away, his head spinning. He thought about how to get out of the facility without needing to pass through reception, but it would require going back through the changing rooms, out across the pitch, climbing a fence - Jordan couldn’t hide forever. He had to face it. 

He took a deep breath and pushed through the doors and into the bright reception. There was John, sat right there in the waiting area, wearing a zip up hoodie and tight training pants and looking as bad as Jordan felt himself. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were heavy and his hair was lank. Jordan’s body lit up, not understanding that John was a bad guy, craving to be next to him, and Jordan tried to force his feet to walk right past him. John shot up and called his name and Jordan just kept on walking, inner monologue shouting FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. 

“Jordan, I’m begging you,” John hissed, jogging to catch up with him. “Just talk to me, what did I do?” 

Jordan was aware that the couple of people milling about were looking over at them, so he stopped and turned to John. Ugh, he was so beautiful. So wonderfully beautiful. Jordan was a sucker. 

“Don’t cause a scene here, I swear to fuck, John,” Jordan said. “Leave us alone.” 

“Tell me why and I’ll leave you alone, I’ll never say a word to you again. You can’t just fuckin ghost me, I’m not a fuckin Tinder date -“ 

“Keep your voice down!” Jordan half shouted. “You want to know why I’ve not been talking to you, John, really?” 

John nodded earnestly, and Jordan could see that he was genuinely stressed and worried. 

“Harry told me. About you two. So.” 

Jordan had never seen someone’s face actually drain of colour before, but he did at that moment. John said nothing, just stared at Jordan. Jordan shook his head and moved past, out the doors, into the cold January air. He marched towards his car and had his hand on the door when John came sprinting up, opening the passenger door and all but hyperventilating in the seat. 

Jordan sat down and sighed. “Get out the car.” 

“You have to listen to me, you have to listen,” John babbled, “It wasn’t like that, it wasn’t like with you, please let me explain it, Jordan, fuck, you have to know -“ 

“You fucking lied to me! You used me for sex and you’ve made a right fucking mug of us, mate. I don’t know who the fuck you are.” Jordan looked at John with disgust. “Get out the fucking car.” 

“Jordan! Just fucking listen!” John was shouting, and Jordan looked out of the windscreen and raised his eyebrows. John never shouted or lost his temper. Jordan didn’t say anything. John took a steadying breath. 

“Me and Harry got drunk after qualifying and he ended up giving me a blow job in the toilets at The Foundry. We both laughed the whole time and I could barely get hard. After the Panama game we were so buzzing. His bird was still in England and I was just horny. He came to my room -“ 

“John, I don’t want to know -“ 

“Would you just let me speak! I have to tell you!” 

Jordan held up his hands. John continued. 

“He came to the room and said he was full of energy and we started rough housing, like play fighting, and one thing led to another and we had sex. Neither of us enjoyed it very much and we said after it that it wasn’t for us. But we’d be bored or horny or that and for whatever reason the girls weren’t around and we just did it. We knew a few of the guys were doing it and we didn’t think it was a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal. We weren’t thinking about each other the rest of the time and we weren’t like, cuddling after it or being intimate. It wasn’t adventurous or hot. We only fucked four or five times and I maybe came twice. We weren’t thinking of it as cheating or anything, we were just fucking bored, Jordan. Just before the Croatia game he came round to my room again and I wasn’t wanting it but he seemed really keen and I was worried he was getting too into it, so I said I didn’t want to do it ever again. He wasn’t happy with me, I think he felt used. But I had thought we were on the same page and as soon as I sensed we weren’t, I ended it. We swore we wouldn’t tell anyone because neither of us were particularly proud of ourselves. When he came into your room that morning, Jord, I was fucking terrified and I couldn’t understand why he was there. I’ve been scared he’s going to tell you the whole time, and I should’ve done it myself but I knew you’d be disgusted by me or think I was just getting with you because, I dunno, you think it’s something I do, and it was nothing at the start but then it was something and now I care about you and you fucking hate me, I can see it in you, I can see that you -“ 

“John!” Jordan said sternly, sensing John was about to get locked on and spiral into hysteria. Jordan put a hand over his face and tried to breathe. John’s story aligned with Harry’s, and it was pretty fair, Jordan thought - they’d shagged a few times, it wasn’t for John, he ended it. Jordan hated the thought of Harry and John together; it made him sick with jealousy, but he knew he had no right to be angry about it. It was John’s omission that bothered him, the betrayal of trust. Jordan looked up again, and then at John. 

“Listen to me now, alright? Listen. Since day one of this - thing - you have mugged me about. You were horrible to me during time off, ignored me and was dry as fuck when you did reply. You only phone me when you’re drunk John, you only care when you’re needy. And then, after all that, I give you another chance, come round and stupidly shag you in your fuckin Mam’s house and think - yeah, I want this - and then I find out you’ve been shagging other men on the team and you never thought to tell me? Turn up at my work making a scene and expect me to what, take you in my arms and tell you I love you? This is bullshit John, total shite! Get out my car. Go away from us.” 

John was crying by then, a couple of tears leaking out of his eyes and his lip quivering. He nodded sadly, defeated, ooking deeply into Jordan’s eyes, and then got out and walked away. Jordan saw his car speeding out of the car park a few minutes later. He swallowed the cloying feeling of sadness and regret that climbed up his ribs, started his own car, and left the grounds. 

—— 

Jordan wasn’t sure why exactly he didn’t forgive John, because he had strong feelings for him and the guy was obviously sorry and Jordan was making his own life harder by being stubborn; but. He couldn’t bring himself to not be mad right now. He needed time, he needed to be sure that he was willing to forgive or he’d only resent John for the rest of his life. 

In his needy moments, Jordan would sit at home in the dark and he nearly phoned John so many times. He’d convince himself he was over it, that he needed John. And he did need him; he craved him and missed him and wanted him in every sense. He wanted to know John’s opinion on Labour’s anti-semitism problems on one hand, and his opinions on Diggy from Big Brother on the other. He wanted to feel important because Jordan made John feel protected and precious, and he thought that was the most responsible job in the world. He wanted to have dirty sweaty crazy sex with John; listen to his filthy mouth and bend him over any and every surface available. He wanted all of these things, but he could never bring himself to press call or to send a text. And so he didn’t have them. 

—— 

The first week in February was the Everton/Man City game. Jordan was a wreck about it - he had even asked to be subbed, pretending he had a sore ankle, but Silva had told him he had to play, and if his ankle was acting up he’d be sent to a host of physios and doctors and other specialists because he wasn’t losing Jordan mid season. 

So he had to play. He hardly slept the night before, which was promising. Jordan was antsy and in his own head and quiet the morning of the game, giving the other players a wide berth and ignoring the fact that John was somewhere in the stadium, so close. He had never been an anxiety sufferer but it was ripping through him now, making itself known, threatening to make him throw up all over the changing room. Theo was eyeballing him, and he came over and said “Don’t worry mate, we’ll smash them, yeah?” And Jordan had to smile and pretend that the football was what he was worried about. 

All too soon came the call to line up in the tunnel. Jordan bounced on his toes, flexed his fingers, tried to breathe. He followed out the staff and stood in line and looked steadfastly ahead but he couldn’t not see John out of the corner of his eye. John looked - Jordan double took - John looked happy, grinning at Kyle and stretching his shoulders out and looking in the zone, and Jordan was instantly irritated. 

On this realisation he took to just staring at John, glaring at him, entirely resentful, and then John looked at him - smiled politely, nodded his head in acknowledgement - and went right back to bantering with Kyle. 

Then they had to walk out onto the pitch to the sound of the fans and Jordan tried to channel his anger into the game, he really did, but in reality he was stood in the goal ignoring the game play and staring at John at the other end of the pitch - John, who Jordan so enjoyed having there to protect the goal when they played together - John, who was so tall and lean and strangely elegant on the field - John, who was — 

Jordan came back to reality as the ball went zipping past his head and straight into the net. Jordan looked around open mouthed at Raheem who was jumping about gleefully and shouted “I WASN’T FUCKING READY!” 

Sterling didn’t hear him or didn’t care, because his team mates were jumping on him and cheering. Ashley Williams came up to Jordan and hissed “What the fuck are you doing?” at him and Jordan just shook his head and looked for John again. John had Kyle on his back and was hopping about and it took all of Jordan’s control to stay at his end of the pitch. He pointedly didn’t look at the Everton benches because he knew Silva was going to fucking slaughter him, so he got back into position and this time, focussed on the ball. 

He didn’t let another of their goals in for the rest of the first half, but Everton failed to equalise. They came off the pitch and Jordan got an earful for that fuck up. Silva threatened to take him off and Jordan said “I didn’t want to play in the first place!” And Silva started shouting that he was going to sell Jordan to the first League One team that enquired after him. 

So they went back out, and Jordan tried not to be distracted, he really did, he honestly did, cross his heart, but John tackled Ramírez and the move was illegal as fuck and Gueye got up in his face about it and Jordan was like yes, here we go, and Kyle Walker came to John’s defence and Jordan thought: fuck it. 

He sprinted up the pitch and started shouting at everyone too, not England vs Switzerland material but still being pretty aggressive, and John just looked at Jordan and went “Don’t give yourself a brain haemorrhage buddy,” and Jordan lost it at him, shouting incoherently, and the ref was blowing his whistle on one side of him and the next thing that red headed Belgian hotshot was on the other side shouting at Jordan about being mean to John and Jordan just looked at him and went “Who the fuck even are you?!” And then a couple of the guys were yanking Jordan away, and Silva was benching him and Jordan was in the bad books, again. 

Jordan sat out the rest of the game with his arms folded, quietly fuming at John. He was going to get him for that, for talking to him like that in front of everyone, for being so fucking cheery and carefree when Jordan was sad and anxious and cared so much. 

City won the match, 1-0. They were fucking celebrating and being smug and it was all Jordan’s fault they’d won. John was out there having the time of his life and Jordan was electric with rage. He stormed back down the tunnel, showered in record time, washing the shame of the match off of himself aggressively, his skin red with the scrubbing. He got changed and then he marched to the Man City changing rooms and stood outside the door with his arms folded. If smoke could come out of his ears, it would be. One by one the team filed out of the room, looking at him warily, and eventually Walker came out, followed by De Bruyne, and they both jumped when they saw him. 

“I’ll call security it you try anything!” Kevin shouted, and Jordan rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t worry, Kev, it’s Stonesy he’s here to see.” Kyle placated him, and Jordan just didn’t say anything. 

“You leave John alone, you animal, your behaviour is an embarrassment to the sport!” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Jordan said, looking Kevin up and down. 

“You see how he speaks to me?!” Kevin cried, and Kyle opened the changing room and looked around, then held the door for Jordan. 

“He’s in there, just fucking go,” he muttered at Jordan, not interested in Kevin’s dramatics. 

Jordan shoved past them and into the changing room, where John was pulling on his socks. There was one other player in the room, and he left when Jordan came in, headphones on and eyes downcast. John looked up at Jordan and said “Calm now?” 

Jordan opened his mouth, closed it again. He looked at John and his mind became clear. He strode across the room and grabbed a handful of John’s hair, tugging his head back so that John had to look up at him. There was no fear in his eyes, only anticipation. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed against the skin pulled taut on his neck. 

“You’re nothing but a little shit,” Jordan growled at him, giving his head a little shake. “You are an absolute fucking nightmare.” 

“I’m not sure if you’re about to attack me or what, but it’s making me hard,” John said, deep and croaky with the way his throat was being pulled. 

“You were worried I’d think you were a slag, Stones, but you are a fucking slag, you literally are such a slut,” he said. “You shouldn’t be allowed out the fuckin house.” 

John brought a hand up behind Jordan and grabbed a handful of his arse, his bottom lip between his teeth, and blinked up at him. “You make me slutty,” he said softly. 

“Who else is here?” Jordan snapped. 

“Everyone left. Just us.” 

Jordan let go of John and did a quick check, making sure that they were indeed alone. “C’mere,” he said, and then he marched through the changing rooms, into the quiet mirrored area near the showers, content that they’d hear people coming in enough time to become presentable from that position. 

Jordan found a clutter-less ledge of counter in front of one of the mirrors and bent over it, looking at John in the mirror. “Eat it,” he said, and John’s eyes lit up. 

“Really?!” He breathed, already falling to his knees, mouthing at the fabric on the back of Jordan’s thighs. 

“You think you’re such a hotshot, you and your fuckin shiny fancy team, but you’ll still lick my arse at the end of the day,” he said, pushing his hips back and resting his head on his folded arms. “Go on, Stones, do it.” 

John wasted no time. He pulled down Jordan’s trousers and he was just there, on his knees in the City changing rooms, worshipping Jordan’s arse, touching it and kissing it and rubbing his cheek against it, running a monologue of nonsense - “unbelievable, never seen an arse like this on a man, must be all the squatting, so fuckin hot, dreamed about this for so long,” and then he was pushing his face as close as he could get it and licking long stripes up Jordan’s behind. 

Jordan was instantly baffled at the sensation - it was at once infuriating and the most pleasureful thing he’d ever experienced. He was torn between pushing back against John’s tongue and pushing forward, seeking friction against his cock, and it took his brain a few seconds to catch on that he could simply put a hand down there and touch himself. John was fucking moaning against Jordan’s skin and the vibrations ghosted over his prostate and Jordan wanted to scream, or cry, but in a good way, the most bizarre way. It was like having an itch and scratching all around but never on the offending spot; and it was so dirty and intimate and sexy that his head was threatening to explode all over the mirror. 

“Finger yourself,” he croaked out to John, “I want to fuck you.” He couldn’t see him but he trusted that John would do it. 

He was certain he was doing it when John’s tongue strokes became erratic and his moans more needy and frequent, and then Jordan was flipping them around, sad to be losing the feeling of John’s mouth at his behind, and he was asking John if it was okay if they did it without a condom, and John was nodding eagerly and saying “Please put it in me, just be inside me,” and Jordan, of course, did. 

He drilled John against the counter, hands on his narrow hips. Jordan pushed up John’s t-shirt to marvel at the milky skin of his lower back, running his fingers on the underside of his hips where his muscles pulled down over his pelvis. “The problem with you, Stones,” Jordan panted, “Is how fucking sexy you are, all the time, whatever you’re doing. You’re this little tiny fucking pot of sexiness, is it any fuckin wonder you can’t make it out the changing rooms without being fucked?” 

“Jordan, Jordan, Jordan,” John moaned in response, “Jordy, Pickford, Jordan Pickford, Picksy,” he garbled, and Jordan started wanking John off in appreciation. 

“You belong to who?” Jordan barked, and then John came all over Jordan’s hand, his back arching, his body clenching around Jordan’s cock like a glove, and Jordan didn’t take much longer to come himself, filling John up and marking him as his. 

They were panting and groggy and tired and both so happy in the aftermath, falling onto the floor and breathing in tandem, both a mess, praying no one came in because they’d never be coherent enough to move in time. They lay side by side, staring at the ceiling, hands clasped in the middle of them. John dropped his head to the right and looked at Jordan. 

“What now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In reality, Jordan’s girlfriend would never be so sound about this... but it’s my story and I can do what I want with it! Mwahahaha
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you for being SO fucking lovely to me about this, you’re all sensational


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.O.U one angst-less chapter. 
> 
> Here we are at the end!!! Thank you so much for seeing this weird pairing, thinking oh my god - that’s crazy - but giving it a shot anyway, encouraging me in the best way and being so great! 
> 
> I’ve so enjoyed this and am so grateful for all your comments and kudos and general support. I’ll see you on the next one! X

They say everything is more vibrant when you’re in love. It’s not that your eyesight dramatically sharpens on finding someone you love, nothing like that. It’s a sense of gratitude for life. When you’re glad you’re alive, food is better because you’re acutely aware of how nice it is to be in that moment, tasting those flavours, feeling the textures. Sights are brighter because you’re suddenly thankful for the stage of your happiness - how lovely to be alive at this time, to live in this place, to see these things now - smells are more defined, more apparent, sound becomes intensely present and all consuming. Things are just better, essentially, because you’re happier. If the most important thing in life is how much love you can spread and give, being in love feels pretty fulfilling. In this way, everything becomes more vibrant. 

That was how Jordan felt, anyway. John had turned to him and asked “What now?” And Jordan had just known. The tiles of the bathroom were hard under his back, the strip lighting above them obnoxious and jarring. Jordan became aware of the smell of sweat and various men’s shower gels. He looked at John, his face so close - he looked at the relaxed tension of his eyebrows and mouth, looked at the smattering of blackheads on his nose. 

“Now we do this. We really do it.” 

So they went back to Jordan’s and ordered Indian food but were having sex before it had even been delivered, John sat on Jordan’s lap on the couch, using what felt like every muscle in his body to lever himself up and down, up and down, Jordan sucking teethy bruises all over John’s neck and collar bones. If he was pressing a little harder than necessary along John’s hips it was only because he couldn’t leave any doubt amongst the City boys that he was a sensational fuck, next time John had to shower with them all. 

Then they ate a Korma and Jordan listened to John talking about - of all things - Keeping Up With The Kardashians, his eyes lit up and sparkly because he was really into it, talking elaborately about theories that Kanye West was actually bisexual but wanted to keep it a secret. Jordan couldn’t have cared less but watching John sat there cross legged on the sofa, big purple marks along his smooth chest, hair all floppy - God, had that haircut been a good decision - Jordan could’ve donated three year’s salary to the Kardashian’s show fund, just to keep John as entertained as this. 

They got up to put their plates in the dishwasher and John’s tummy was round and swollen with food and Jordan was just obsessed with it, awestruck by how his usually lean body looked when it was stuffed with food. Jordan dumped his plates down and crowded John from the back and said “I would love to blow you right now but I think I’d throw up,” and John laughed - that loud and sharp laugh of his - and so Jordan spun him around and kissed him there for ages, his hands running over John’s belly, his mouth unable to be close enough, wanting to inhale him and have him entirely and completely. 

They went to bed together - guest room, Jordan couldn’t stand to be in Megan’s bed - and lay there staring at each other for the longest time before they were turned on by the presence of each other once again. They were having lazy, half arsed sex, and Jordan commented that his thighs were burning and John laughed again and said “Good thing you aren’t a professional sportsman, then, you’d be shit at it.” Jordan had held still and refused to move again until John said “Man United are the best football club in the city.” 

Before they turned the lights off John said sleepily “I better not wake up to someone else from the team staring at me from the foot of the bed,” and Jordan thought: I have fallen in love. 

——

Jordan woke up naturally, no alarms. He was warm under the sheets, his body a little bit tight from his exertions the previous day. He stretched out his toes, rolled his ankles, relished the way his calves felt as he worked them. He turned to his right and there was John, only his eyes visible from the top of the duvet, a shock of brown hair against the white pillows. 

Jordan got up and pissed, brushed his teeth. He ambled back to bed happily, having noted that it was 9am and he had nowhere to be. He got back under the covers and lay on his side watching John sleep, thinking that it was so blissful to have the thing you cared most about it in your bed, at your fingertips. It was quieting and comforting and so beautifully simple. 

John awoke with a gentle blink of his eyes, and for a teeny tiny split second Jordan saw confusion cross his face, but then happiness, contentment, a crease at the corner of his eyes as he took in Jordan. 

“If you’re shagging me, does that make you a WAG?” Jordan blurted out of nowhere. John huffed a little laugh, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms up over his head, groaning in delight. 

“I’d be a great WAG. Following you around the world wearing designer clothes with my hair always done nice. Could even explain the offside rule to the other girls whilst we sip mimosas and take Instagram shots in our men’s footy shirts.” 

Jordan knew of the phenomenon of men’s gravelly voices first thing in the morning - he himself was a man - but it had never been a thing that caused his heart to pick up until hearing John. 

“You sound more northern when you’ve just woken up,” Jordan observed. John rolled back onto his side and tucked his legs up in front of him, toes pressing into Jordan’s thighs. 

“Would tha like us to talk like Zak Dingle from now on, Jord?” John said, hamming up the accent. “Ey up, make us a cup o Yorkshire tea n let the sheep into the grazin pen will ya lad?” 

“Fuck off,” Jordan laughed. “You’d miss doing your fake Manc accent too much.” 

“I do not talk with a fucking Manc accent, you twat,” John responded, digging his toes into Jordan’s skin. 

“You sound like Frank Gallacher - ow!” 

John had kicked Jordan for that, and thus they rolled around in the bed for a bit, nipping and biting each other, swatting at one another’s balls. Jordan pinned John eventually, both because he was a better fighter and John wanted him to, and they kissed with Jordan above John, holding his weight on his forearms, in between John’s legs. 

“You need to brush your teeth,” Jordan said eventually into John’s mouth. 

“You’re hard,” was all John said in response, smiling dopily. 

“So are you.” 

“I want a blowjob.” 

“Ah, Johnny boy, did no one ever tell you that I want never gets?” 

“I would really, really love a blowjob from you darling, please please.” 

“Tell me how then,” Jordan agreed, ducking under the covers and making his way down John’s body. 

“Alright - eh, start by, like just kissing it and licking it and stuff, like don’t put it in right away,” John said. 

Jordan grabbed John’s dick and did exactly that, trying to remember what he liked himself - the vein, Jordan always liked it when they put their tongue on that - so he sought John’s out and pressed his tongue to it, and John hummed appreciatively. 

“Holy fuck - I can feel your heartbeat if I squeeze your veins!” Jordan exclaimed. John lifted up the sheets to look down at Jordan, who was marvelling at his discovery. “That’s cool as fuck,” Jordan mused. John laughed fondly. 

“Alright, more attention on the head please - you can pull the foreskin back a bit, then just - yeah, that’s - oh yeah,” John trailed, Jordan’s tongue flicking across the head of his cock proving distracting. “You can put it in, any time you like,” John said breathily. 

Jordan braced himself and then took it in, going as far as he could before he gagged - around just over half of the way, not too shabby at all - and sucked like it was a straw in a drink (but not a plastic one, Jordan knew those were bad for the environment). John brought a hand to Jordan’s head and encouraged him silently to move, and Jordan did, and he was thinking huh - I’m a natural at this. 

“You’re a fucking natural,” John groaned seconds later, and Jordan smiled. 

Jordan used his hand and his mouth to make John’s cock feel like it was totally surrounded, working it expertly, grimacing a little bit at the bits of precome he was tasting as he worked. John was a little bit whiny, nothing major, just humming appreciatively and enjoying himself. 

Jordan came off with a loud pop. “Tell you one thing, that right hurts your jaw that,” he commented. John’s hand sought his head and pushed him back downwards again, and Jordan wanted to tell him not to be fucking greedy but he didn’t want to disturb the peace, so he got back to it. 

John came, Jordan swallowed it, and then he came up from under the covers, proud as punch, and high fived John. “You need to do some practicing Stones. Not fair if you’re getting fuckin stellar blowies from me and all I get from you is a cheese grater.” 

John cocked a brow. “I ate your arse. We’re even.” 

“Speaking of eating... what do you want for breakfast?” 

—- 

They didn’t leave the house for two days. John could barely walk, and they had to agree to lay off the sex for a bit so that John could go back to work in a few days. They spoke vaguely about practical things, but for the most part had decided that it was better just to play it by ear, to take each day as it came. They agreed to be casual around each other in public, to keep to themselves. They’d tell their parents in a few months if things were still the same. There was no rush. 

They had an upcoming international game, in March, and their training sessions for it were a test of their ability to keep things professional. Things were awkward with Harry - there was no denying that - but otherwise they managed well. Gareth had asked John why the fuck he was covered in bruises at one point, and everyone had looked away awkwardly, and it occurred to Jordan that maybe more people were aware of them than he first thought - but he could live with it. He was happy, so he didn’t care. 

The morning before their second training session, Jordan woke John up when it was still dark outside with kisses along his neck, tweaking his nipples and whispering “Wakey wakey, little guy,” in his ear. “Rise and shine, my baby,” and John was disorientated and confused. 

“Jordan? What time is it?” 

Jordan raised himself up and sat across John’s hips, taking both of his wrists and pinning them above his head. 

“It’s fine if we have to be casual around the lads, don’t mind that one bit,” Jordan said lowly, smattering kisses across John’s chest. “But I don’t want YOU forgetting it, do I? Bouncing about that field putting it all on display like that, so perky and entertaining. I want to put you in the goal and make you sit there so I can keep an eye on you.” He brought a hand down between them, tugged himself a few times, running his hands over John’s quickly awakening cock. “So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to fuck you, now, if that’s okay with you.” 

“Definitely okay with me.” 

“Good. But, you aren’t allowed to come. If you do, you’ll be in big, big trouble. I’m going to plug you up with my come, and you’re going to be good all day at work, and I’ll decide if you get to come when we get home, alright?” 

John’s eyes widened and he raised his head off the pillow a bit, restrained by Jordan holding his wrists above him. “You’re going to what me? Plug me?” 

Jordan kissed him on the mouth and reached over to his side of the bed, coming back with a brand spanking new butt plug. Jordan could see John’s eyes in the dark, how they looked at him and the plug and back again. “Are you crazy? I can’t play with that in me,” he breathed, but he was suddenly painfully, gloriously hard, and Jordan licked his lips. 

“Yes you can, you can do it. I believe in you. Do you remember what to say if you really, really can’t do it?” 

They’d discussed safe words casually, still building up to really really needing one. Now was probably a good time to test it out. 

“Penalty,” John said. 

“Good boy,” Jordan said, kissing him again. 

He made light work of fingering him, careful to avoid John’s prostate, and then he was lubed and sliding in, making sure not to touch John’s cock too much, not to stimulate it. John was taking it like a champ, breathily moaning whenever Jordan accidentally brushed his prostate, trying his best not to think about coming. Jordan could see, even through the dark, how hard he was concentrating - it was beautiful. “You’re beautiful,” he said suddenly, and John preened. 

Jordan came pretty quickly. John’s cock was still lying between them, swollen and heavy, and Jordan pulled out and popped the plug in, keeping his come in there - it was disgusting but so so hot, Jordan thought - and he looked carefully at John, who was focussed entirely on the sensation in his backside, on how turned on he was. 

“How is that?” Jordan asked him, moving to flick the bedside light on. The room was bathed in a warm glow and Jordan took in the sight of John lying there, pink cheeks, pink chest, pink cock, his pupils blown wide and his mouth slightly parted. Jordan thought that this was a mistake, he couldn’t take John out of the house looking like this - but John was nodding stoically, looking at Jordan. 

“Yeah, it’s - nice,” he breathed. “Weird but I like it.” 

Jordan kissed him proudly, gently. “Alright, love. Up you get. Training in an hour.” 

—— 

They were in the car en route to the grounds and John still had a semi, had whimpered every time the plug had brushed his sensitive prostate. 

“Jordan, I can’t get soft,” he whined, looking at Jordan from the passenger seat of the car. “What if someone sees?” 

“You’ll be fine, no one will see. You can do it, I believe in you,” Jordan laughed, bringing a hand to rest on John’s thigh. John gripped the hand with two of his, and Jordan’s heart stuttered. 

They got out of the car and John half waddled into the training facility and they were soon accosted by Kane, who was milling around near the entrance. 

“Morning lads,” he said. “Fuckin freezing isn’t it?” 

“Baltic like,” Jordan agreed, John just nodding beside them. 

“Drills today, isn’t it? Can’t stand drills, so boring.” 

“I know mate, much prefer competitions and that,” Jordan said, just wanting to get into the changing rooms and get started. 

Harry agreed and then looked pointedly at John. “You alright mate?” He asked, looking at him suspiciously. 

John looked at Jordan. Jordan raised his eyebrows and nodded his head as if to say - go on, it’s alright. 

“Yeah, I’m great,” he said slowly, smiling. He was so spaced out, Jordan didn’t think there was a chance in hell they’d get away with this. 

“You’re glowing,” was all Harry said, smiling at him politely. “But get more sleep, yeah? Gareth can’t be bothered with us when we’re all sleepy.” Then he headed in the direction of the changing rooms, Jordan and John following behind. Jordan squeezed the back of John’s neck in silent support. John just waddled about. 

John was all over the place on the field. He could barely follow orders and he kept gravitating towards the training area for the goal keepers. The team were used to him being introverted and slow sometimes, and John just kept putting it down to lack of sleep if anyone asked. 

Harry, who had seen John when he was turned on, kept throwing death glares at Jordan but kept his mouth shut anyway, knowing he didn’t have a leg to stand on. Jordan watched John try his best to stay with the drills, to keep focussed, but he noticed whenever John froze and closed his eyes, he saw the flush of his cheeks, he saw how he missed the ball nine times out of ten. It was the hottest thing Jordan had ever seen. 

They couldn’t have been finished any sooner. Jordan was making a beeline for the changing rooms, eager to get John home, when Gareth called him over. Jordan cursed and changed his path, hoping to keep it brief. 

“Pickford?” Gareth said, arms folded. 

“Yep?” 

“I don’t care what you do in your private time, alright? But don’t ever bring him here like that ever again, do you understand?” 

Jordan froze. “Dunno what you’re talking about.” 

“Yes you fucking do. It looks like he’s been injected with horse tranquilliser!” Gareth hissed, and Jordan looked down at the floor. 

“Got it,” he murmured. “Can I go get him?” 

“You’re on your last legs Jordan.” 

Jordan nodded and turned away, content that he wasnt on his last anything; he was a national treasure now, but still. He should stop pushing Gareth Southgate. 

When he got to the building John was waiting for him by the doorway, looking like a wreck, looking so hot. Jordan grinned at him, put a hand on the back of his neck, whispered in his ear “You’ve done so good, you’re incredible, wait till I get you home.” 

They didn’t shower, because how could John, didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Jordan broke a lot of laws driving home, driving like a maniac, speaking soothing praises to John the whole way. John was so needy and turned on, so tactile and breathy. 

Jordan couldn’t get the keys in the door when they got home. He kept fumbling with them, had to stop and compose himself before he was able to unlock the door and get inside. He wasted no time in surrounding John, kissing him and pulling his clothes off, saying “Such a good boy, you’re the best John, I’m so proud of you, you make me so happy,” laying John out on the living room carpet and kissing him all over. 

“I want it so bad Jord, I need it,” he was mumbling, slurry a little bit. 

Jordan looked him in the eyes. “How do you want it? Whatever you want, I’ll do.” 

John blinked, said “Can’t decide,” and Jordan knew he had to be in charge. He decided a simple hand job would do it - John was already over stimulated and he’d appreciate Jordan staying face level with him, wouldn’t want to be left alone. So Jordan did, pressing his forehead into John’s temple, whispering encouragements and jacking him off and it would’ve been an embarrassingly quick orgasm had John not been strung out for the last 7 hours in a row. 

John cried a little bit when he came and Jordan wanted to cry too because this was too much, too amazing, made him too happy. He marvelled at John, looked down at him and whispered “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.” 

John closed his eyes at that, sighing, a faint smile around his lips. He opened his eyes and looked up at Jordan. “I’m pretty sure you are too.” 

Jordan slapped him playfully and they kissed and then they went to shower together, Jordan removing the plug happily, and John ate Jordan out for thirty minutes until the water got cold and they had no choice but to get out and try and be functioning adults again rather than horny teenagers. 

John cooked Jordan a stir fry for tea. Jordan had to stand in the bathroom for a bit and breathe, and appreciate just how lucky he was. 

——

The boys lined up in the tunnel for their game against Denmark. Jordan was grinning, bantering with Trippier and Dele, buzzing for the game, adrenaline pumping around his chest. He looked around over his shoulder and winked at John, who was equally as smiley, his eyes shining in the lights above them. They walked out onto the pitch and Jordan let the noise of the fans wash over him, like jet engines but better, lifting him and wrapping him up. The grass was spongy and bright under his feet, his skin tingling with excitement. Up and down his arms little satellites came alive, his head slipping into the zone, his fingers flexing in anticipation. 

He lined up next to the lads, looking at them with a swell of pride and appreciation in his chest, still unbelieving that they’d been chosen to do this; that this was their life. They had this team and this talent and the future was theirs, Jordan could feel it, could taste their success as it stood tantalisingly close in their future. 

He was proud of what they represented and what they were capable of, proud of their ability and team spirit. Jordan looked around at the people in the stands who had been galvanised by their game play, who adored them and were equally so adored. 

He looked at John, mouthing the words to God Save The Queen, and was overwhelmed with love and happiness and joy. They’d done it, they were doing it - it wasn’t easy, but they were giving it their best try. Every second had been worth it, Jordan knew. Every bad time had been worth the good times. 

The anthem finished and Jordan shook hands with the Danes and then was pulling on his gloves, rolling his shoulder blades, clapping his hands. This was what he was born for, this was his super power. He made his way to the goal, thinking that they were unstoppable, he was unstoppable, life was excellent. 

“Fuckin send them in,” Jordan muttered to himself. The ref blew the whistle, and the game commenced.

**Author's Note:**

> http://belle-laid.tumblr.com


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